


Between the Shadow and the Soul

by saraubs



Series: Certain Dark Things [2]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-12-14 04:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 74,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11775678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraubs/pseuds/saraubs
Summary: Follow up to Certain Dark Things. Not going to post any spoilers, but if you've read CDT then you know what's coming :)





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who decided to stick with this story - thank you :) I hope you enjoy. A couple of key points: 
> 
> 1\. These chapters are a lot longer than the ones in CDT
> 
> 2\. This chapter in particular covers a long time - the span of many months. From chapter 2 onward it will be much more compact, so if you find that a bit off-putting, I promise it will improve
> 
> 3\. I really, really hope you like it :) Please, let me know what you think.

“And that’s the last box. Thank God.” Emma drops the box, which is carefully taped and labeled “Books – nonfiction” in purple sharpie, on the floor of my new kitchen. “May you never move again,” she adds, raising her hands toward the ceiling in supplication.

“No immediate plans,” I answer, picking up the box from where she’s haphazardly set it down and placing it neatly against the wall. I ignore her pointed look and take out my box-cutter and make a quick, even slice through the layers of tape. “Don’t want to stay and help pack it away, do you?”

“I’m thinking no.” She takes a seat on one of the high-legged chairs and fans herself with a take-out brochure from her purse. “I’ve done my sisterly duty for the next five years, at least. Plus, I should really get on the road. Many miles to go before I sleep and all that.”

“Poetry?” I ask, wrinkling my nose.

“Poetry,” she says with a nod. “Something you should consider. Beautiful house on the water, the sound of the waves in the backyard – it’s the perfect place to write poetry.”

I start taking the books out of the box and piling them on the table in small stacks. “If only I were a twelve-year-old girl.”

Emma picks up one of the books and knocks me on the head with it. “You mean instead of a sexist ass?”

“Fine,” I mutter, massaging the top of my head. “I’m not a twelve year old boy. My point is that the last thing I need right now is whimsical fluff. What I need is structure.”

“Mmm, yes, definitely. You live such a lackadaisical life.” She pulls open the fridge, making another face when she finds it empty. She rubs her hand over the small bump of her belly, still barely discernable despite her efforts to maximize it. “I’m so hungry. First you work me to death, and then you try to starve me. You’re really not looking forward to having a nephew, are you?”

I hold up the book that I’ve just taken out of the box – _Your Child’s Emotional and Behavioral Development_ – and smile. “On the contrary, I’m more prepared than you. You haven’t picked up a single thing.”

“Uh, four years of medical school? I’ve seen what happens to pregnant women, and I am doing everything in my power to repress the experience, thank you very much.”

“Yeah, that’s probably for the best.” I put the book back in its pile and continue unpacking the box. “Although I’m sure it’s easy compared to the rest of it: up all night with a screaming baby; changing hundreds of diapers; getting thrown up, pooped, and peed on; and always knowing, in the back of your mind, that your life doesn’t run by your schedule.” I shudder, mulling the prospect over. “Sounds like hell.”

Emma rolls her eyes – a gesture she’s perfected over the years of having to deal with me. “You really are a ray of sunshine. Anyway, you said that about having a pet, too. You changed your mind.”

“Yeah, but the dogs were more…” I turn away from my sister and instead focus my concentration on aligning the tower of books that’s rising up from the hardwood.

“Alec,” Emma says, her nostrils flaring. Though she hasn't admitted - probably because she's worried that it would make it harder for me - I know that she's just as hurt by his absence. She'd always said that he'd be her firstborn's Godfather, and now he didn't even know she was pregnant. “Come on, Jay. You’re not going to be able to get over this if you still can’t mention him by name.”

“Fine. _Alec_. He took care of the dogs most of the time. They were kind of like nephews in that way – cute and fun to play with, but I always knew someone else was ultimately responsible for their well-being.” I pick through the spines of the books, looking now for a picture of Kipling and Hector that I had tucked away to ensure it didn’t wrinkle. I find it trapped between the pages of a French-English dictionary, and take it out and pin it up on the fridge.

“I still think you should drive straight there and take them,” Emma says, glaring at the picture. “They were your dogs too. I can’t _believe_ he just took off to New Zealand and didn’t even ask you to take care of them.”

“I was pretty clear about not contacting me, Emma. Plus, it’s not like you would have let me answer the phone even if he did call.”

“He could have written me an email,” she sniffs. “It was a just a dick move, okay? Stop defending him.”

“I’m not defending him, I just – ”

Emma snorts – a cruel, hard sound that comes from the back of her throat – and turns back to the books. I take an armful and carry them to the solid oak bookshelf that sits in the living room. Emma takes a few and sticks them into the shelf haphazardly, and I follow behind her, arranging them into alphabetical order.

“Okay, hint taken,” she says, gathering up her purse and keys. “Time for me to get out.”

“Hey.” I reach out and grab her shoulders, pulling her close to me. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For everything.”

“You don’t ever need to thank me,” she says, her breath hitching. “And I’m not mad at you. I’m just – ”

“I know,” I interrupt. I know that Emma’s only got my best interest at heart, but I don’t want our last conversation to be another diatribe about Alec.

She runs a finger quickly under her eye and then smiles. “You promise you’re gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Emma. I’ve got lectures to plan and a house to set up. I won’t have time to be not-okay.”

Emma draws back and cups my face in her hands, her eyes still shining. “Just – just don’t get bogged down in work, okay? Just go outside, see the light or something.”

“Surfboard is in the basement, Em.”

“Okay, well, I guess this is it.” She wipes a stray tear from her cheek. “Fuck Alec for leaving,” she sniffles. “And fuck this pregnancy for making me so damn emotional.”

“Me moving didn’t have anything to do with Alec leaving. If anything, I spent more time with you than I would have if things had worked out.”

Emma dabs at her eyes with a tissue she’s fished out of her purse. “Stop –”

“Defending him, I know,” I finish. “It’s just instinctual at this point. And mom doesn’t make it any easier. She keeps asking when he’s coming back. As if I would know.”

Emma’s eyes flash as she tosses the tissue in the garbage. “Fuck mom, too,” she says. “She thinks Alec is a bloody saint just because he’s a Lightwood.” She turns toward me, brandishing her keys like a weapon. “I don’t care when he’s coming back, and neither should you. I don’t know if she thinks you would just welcome him back with open arms. This isn’t a summer blockbuster, where people go off any _find themselves_ ; it’s real life. It’s your life.”

“I think she just misses him.” I picture him, the way his hair used to fall into his eyes as he read, and my heart squeezes painfully. “She’s allowed to miss him.”

Emma wraps her arms around me again, knowing that I’m not really talking about mom. “I just don’t want her to have her hopes up.” She pulls back and looks at me, the corners of her eyes wrinkling. “It’s not healthy.”

“Yeah, she knows that.” I pause for a second, and then add quietly. “I know that.”

Emma leans in for one last hug before starting her journey back to Nevada. “You’ll find someone who deserves you,” she says. “Someone who loves you properly. I promise.”

I smile and walk her back to the car, knowing that any other reaction would just hurt her feelings; I know she takes it as a personal affront that her not-so-subtle attempts at psychotherapy haven’t had much benefit. But I can’t help it. I know, as strongly as I did when I left for Emma’s that first night, that if Alec showed up at my door next week I would let him right back into my life as if nothing had happened.

* * *

The first couple of days pass quickly, and I don’t have time to think of Alec. I spend my afternoons at the university, planning my lectures. The work is satisfying; hours pass, and I don’t realize how long I’ve been working until my neck starts to cramp and I look outside to find it’s already dusk.

The house starts to come together by the end of the first week. Most of the furniture had been delivered while I was still at Emma’s; it was only a matter of rearranging and finding matching accessories.

By the time that I run out of ways to occupy my mind, the fall semester is about to start. I’ve been assigned a single class – contracts – without a TA, since I’m still expected to maintain a halftime practice through the university, but it still seems a little overwhelming. I’ve been in the courtroom since I graduated, and I don’t know how smoothly I’ll be able to make the transition to teaching. The night before I’m due to start my nails have been chewed down to stumps, and when I’m taking the penne off the stove to drain, I trip over one of the grooves in the floor I haven’t yet had time to get used to, and drop the entire pot on my foot.

I curse loudly, glad for the first time that there are no dogs underfoot. Undoubtedly Kipling would try to see what was wrong, and Hector always hated when anyone yelled. The sudden memory stings as much as the burn, and I hop to the bathroom on one foot, resisting the urge to go back out and just chuck the entire pot in the garbage.

“Polysporin,” I mutter, poking through the medicine cabinet. “Where are you, where are you?” I can’t find anything to put on my foot, so I take a facecloth out of the drawer by the sink and press that over the inflamed skin, hissing when the pain flares. I pull out my cell and dial Emma – psychiatrist or not, she has enough basic medical training to deal with a scalded foot – but she doesn’t pick up.

I toss the phone to the floor with a grunt and hobble out to get my keys. Cursing my own stupidity for not picking up antibiotic ointment in the first damn place, I pull on my coat and storm through the door, not bothering to even tie my shoes. Unfortunately, the mistake is costly, as I trip over the curb and straight into a dude who’s out walking his dog. The two of us go down in a tangle of limbs, with his dog’s leash binding us together.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, extricating myself and then helping him to his feet. “I forgot to do up my shoes.”

The guy grins and I’m momentarily stunned by how much he looks like Alec. He has the same wispy black hair, though it’s long enough to curl around his jaw, and bright blue eyes. His lips are puckered and so red that he must make a habit of chewing on them, and his front teeth are slightly crooked. He’s wearing a grey-woolen beanie despite the heat, and I make a move to tell him how ridiculous that is, but he interrupts me before I have the chance.

“No problem at all,” he says in a smooth British accent. “You may, in fact, turn around and do it again, if it means that you’ll stick around a few moments longer.”

He holds out his hand and I shake it tentatively. “Thomas,” he says, grinning again. “Thomas Werther. I live in the house just round the bend. I saw you moving in with your wife last week.”

His fingers linger in mine, and I wonder why, if he thinks I have a wife, he’s so intent on flirting. “I don’t have a wife,” I answer, drawing my hand back quickly. “That was my sister, Emma.”

“Really?” The smirk is back and he takes a step closer, pulling his dog along with him. “I never would have guessed. You don’t look much alike.”

“So what? You thought you’d come and chat up a married man? Classy.” I walk around him in the direction of the 24-hour pharmacy I saw on my drive back yesterday. I hear the clicking of dog’s nails against the pavement and turn to find that Thomas Werther is following me.

“Did you want something?” I ask, turning around abruptly and nearly forcing a second collision. “Because I’m actually quite busy.”

“Come on gorgeous,” he says with a quirk of his red lips. “Don’t be like that. I was only trying to be polite.”

“By hitting on me? Someone you thought was straight?”

“See, so you are gay! Now that is excellent news.” He picks up his pace, jogging to keep up with my long strides. “Although it’s fun when they’re married, too. Makes for a bit of excitement. All hush-hush and secret rendezvous.” He keeps jogging until he’s a little ahead of me, then turns to walk backward so that we’re face to face. He smiles as I scowl. “My, but you are gorgeous.”

“I’m flattered, really, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Why, not your type?” He smirks, and I get the feeling he’s used to be everyone’s type.

“Conflict of interests,” I correct. “I’m not really interested in anyone who glorifies cheating.”

“Hmm, burned bad, were you? That’s a pity.” He rubs his chin before holding a hand out to my chest. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to pull one over on you.” He winks, and I try to dodge around him again. “Listen, gorgeous, – ”

“Jay,” I interrupt.

“Jay,” he amends. “You’re are a delight, really. And I think it would be a waste if I had to spend the next two weeks like the last – lost in a haze of lust as you jog past my balcony, all shirtless and sweaty.” He smiles into his hands, catching his bottom lip with his teeth. “You worried about cheaters? Don’t be. I don’t promise anyone something I can’t deliver. You seem like you need to blow off a bit of steam, and I am only too happy to oblige.”

The urge to roll my eyes is overwhelming, but I settle for a blank stare. “A haze of lust?”

His dog whines and he bends down to check on her before answering. “A miasma, even,” he says as he rises. “It’s been bloody torture.”

I push past him, the dull throb of my foot punctuating each step. “Well, sorry to make your stalking so difficult. I would say it was nice to meet you, but I’ve made it a habit not to lie, even to creepy voyeurs.”

“Lovely to meet you too,” he calls out before he finally turns back toward his house.

* * *

By the time I get back with the Polysporin, reorganize my medicine cabinet, and stew over my conversation with my new neighbor, it’s nearly three o’clock, which means I have to be up to get ready for work in three and a half hours. I debate the merits of even going to sleep in the first place, knowing that I’ll probably feel like a sack of shit either way, and at least if I stay awake I can get some more work done. But I can’t remember where I’ve put my glasses, and I’m afraid that if I get up without the helpful light of day, they’ll end up as bits of plastic and I’ll look like an idiot squinting at the chalkboard in the morning.

I briefly debate throwing my alarm into the wall when it sounds off after what feels like mere minutes later, but the rage is quickly engulfed by an all-encompassing panic. I practically run through the house, gathering up the briefcase and lunch I prepared last night and making sure I’m out the door with plenty of time to get to the university. Once I’m there I take a final glance through my notes before setting off for the classroom.

I get there with fifteen minutes to spare, but the room is already half full. The keenest students sit at the front, their glasses glowing with the reflection of their laptop screens. Though most of them are my age and some of them even older, they all look impossibly young. They look fresh and unbeaten, and I taste a gush of blood before I realize I’m even chewing on my inner cheek. I push up my glasses and stand at the podium, rifling through my notes and waiting for the second half of the class to finally trickle in.

“My name is James Grayson,” I announce as soon as they take a seat. I pick a point at the back of the room – a small imperfection in the paint – and focus on it, pretending that I’m in court instead of a classroom. “You may call me Professor Grayson, or merely Professor.” I grab the a stack of the syllabi I’ve prepared and, ignoring the sharp burn of a paper cut, pass them to the student at the end of the front row. “There is an outline for each of your assignments and I expect you to follow it. There are no excuses for lateness or sloppiness. These three years are all that’s left of the bridge between theory and practice, and there’s no time to waste.”

Satisfied with the introduction, I turn to upload my presentation, only to find that I have no idea how to use the smart board. I glance at the front row, looking at the bespectacled faces, trying to figure out which ones would jump at the opportunity to help and which ones would jump at the opportunity to crucify me. I’m sure most of them would do both. My glasses slip a little down my nose, and I push them up hastily, and make the decision to give none of them the pleasure. I stand at the podium and start lecturing unaided.

I get lost in the lecture, not noticing the time until someone coughs loudly, breaking my train of thought. Emma had once insisted it was a waste of time to spend hours memorizing case files when I had the use of the internet, and I can’t wait to get back to the house and tell her how wrong she was. But when I look up and out at the sea of faces, I notice that most of them look half-asleep. There’s one in the back row who’s face down in his backpack, not even feigning interest at this point.

“Does anyone have any questions?” I ask, readjusting my glasses.

There’s an immediate shift in the atmosphere as all the students who’d been daydreaming scramble to appear focused. A young girl near the front, with wide brown eyes and a feverish sort of intensity, leans forward. “Is your mother really Marina Grayson?” she asks. For the first time in my full seventy-five minutes of lecturing, the class is rapt.

“That question is neither appropriate nor relevant,” I answer promptly. “Please read the cases I’ve outlined in the syllabus before the next class.” I turn and walk through the door before any of them have a chance to respond, hoping that the next class will be better.

It isn’t.

In fact, despite my best efforts, the classes keep getting worse. I spend hours in the lecture hall trying to master the smart board, only to upload a presentation of Alec’s about proper maintenance of hamster cages he gave to a group of grade school children in Las Vegas. I spend hours obsessing over my hand flapping, cheek-biting, and worn-down nails – habits I had broken years ago, with Alec’s help – only to find them worse than they had ever been when I was a student. Perhaps the worst thing is that I just can’t find a way to make my students interested. I spend countless hours researching lecture materials, case files, and learning activities, only have to field a dozen questions about my mother and her landmark cases.

It’s hard to believe that six months ago I had everything I wanted: a thriving practice, a beautiful house with the kitchen of my dreams, and the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. Now I live with the sound of the ocean taunting me as I spend my waking hours preparing for a job I can’t get right, killing myself for students who think the most worthwhile contribution I’ve made to their education is the five proper steps to cleaning up hamster crap, and wasting the nights staring at the ceiling from the gigantic bed I always thought I’d be sharing with Alec.

In my blind stupidity I vow that things can’t possibly get worse.

I am a fucking idiot. 

* * *

 

I’m about to order Chinese when the phone rings – my mother.

She doesn’t even give me time to answer before she starts talking. “Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is crisp and stern, and I have the overwhelming urge to tell her to get back to me after she’s had a drink.

“Yes, it’s true. I _did_ watch Centre Stage for the fourth time this week last night. So sorry for not clueing you in.” I nearly slice my finger on the corner of my desk and make a mental note to file it down later.

“About Alexander,” she says, her voice dangerously low. “Don’t play coy with me, James. You didn’t tell me he was back, and I was completely unprepared to run into him at Lightwood Corp this morning.”

I slip and slice my palm open on the sharpened corner, cursing away from the phone so that my mother can’t hear me. “You saw him?” I ask, my throat dry. “In New York City.”

“He’s been home for over a month and you didn’t think to _tell_ me? I expect this kind of behavior from your sister, James, but not from you.”

I try to sit up and knock over the glass of water that’s in front of me. It shatters as soon as it hits the floor, and in my rush to clean it up, I end up putting a piece through my heel. “Dammit,” I hiss, throwing the phone on the table while I reach over to grab the towel hanging from the stove.

“James?” My mother’s voice echoes through the spacious kitchen. “James, are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Mom,” I say, wincing as I press the towel to my heel. “It was nothing.”

“You’ve never been one for histrionics, so please don’t start. Honestly, we would never hear the end of it from Emma.”

“Mom, I’m kind of busy right now.” Busy with another episode of House Hunters International, but she doesn’t need to know that.

“Of course you are. You’re too busy to pick up the phone to tell your mother that your fiancé –”

“Ex-fiancé.”

She sighs. “That your _ex-fiancé_ is back in town, and I had to run into him at a corporate function. I was flabbergasted, James. Absolutely taken aback. I could have used a little forewarning.”

I hobble across the kitchen, having soaked through the small towel. “You and me both,” I grind out as I try to locate the piece of glass.

“Don’t try to pretend that you didn’t know,” she says. “I already talked to your sister. You told her over a week ago.”

“I didn’t tell…you mean, Emma knew? She knew that he was back?” I don’t know what hurts more: the pain of knowing Alec didn’t come rushing to California like I’d hoped or Emma’s betrayal.

“Yes, she knew he was back. She talked to the veterinary student he had taking care of the dogs, the one who forwarded your mail? Lovely young man.”

I can’t see any reason why my mother would lie. She may be fanatical in her need to control everything and unrelenting in her belief that Alec and I should be together, but she’s never been a liar.

“I really didn’t know, Mom,” I whisper. “Emma didn’t tell me.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says softly. I’m not fooled by the maternal charade – the woman is as cuddly as a porcupine, and if she’s feigning warmth, then there’s definitely an ulterior motive. “Maybe you should take a trip home. Just for a weekend. It would do you well to get out of that heat for a few days.”

Bingo.

“I can’t, Mom. I just have too much work to do.” I pause, running my fingers over the surface of my skin. “Does he – does he look well?”

“Quite well.” I can almost hear her smiling over the phone. “And don’t you think everyone didn’t notice. There was this little tart that barely left him alone all night.”

My hand slips as I’m picking at the glass, pushing it even deeper.

“Magnus somebody or other,” she sniffs, clearly unimpressed. “James, I think that you should really consider what you’re letting happen here. Do you want Alec to be taken in by one of these gold-diggers? Some underwear model with straw for brains?”

“Magnus is not an underwear model,” I say quietly. That’s the reason why Alec didn’t come running to California. He was running toward Magnus instead.

“Whatever he is, he’s irrelevant. He’s not _you_. And I think you need – “

“What I need is for you to stop!” I slam my foot on the ground, but the jolt of pain just exacerbates the irritation I feel at succumbing to my mother's prodding. “Magnus is a stripper, Mom. Not a model, not a social climber, a goddamn exotic dancer! Alec _cheated_ on me. He cheated on me and then he ran away and now, apparently, he’s back. He’s back with Magnus and me coming to New York is not going prove anything. The only thing more pathetic than getting dumped for a glorified go-go dancer is to go crawling back to New York. Now, if you’ll forgive me, I have half a glass stuck in the bottom of my foot and should really get to the doctor.”

“I refuse to believe it,” my mother says, completely unruffled by my outburst. “Alec would never.”

“No, you don’t think so? Why don’t you just ask him your fucking self, then?” I don’t bother waiting for a reply, instead throwing the phone directly at the wall. The sound of the screen shattering is more than a little gratifying, but still not enough. I kick my chair out of the way, prompting another white-hot pulse of pain. “Fuck!”

I rest my head on my folded arms and take three deep breaths before walking to the bathroom to wrap some gauze around my foot. Tiny droplets of blood pepper the hardwood, but I don’t even care to wipe them up. Not bothering to cover the cut with anything else, I slip into my flip-flops and head out to the car.

I’m just about to climb in when I hear a familiar British accent. “Jay!”

Excellent. Thomas. Fucking. Werther.

I twist around to find him standing in front of my driveway, wearing nothing but a pair of board shorts slung low on his slim hips. His black hair is dripping wet and there’s a guy next to him holding a surfboard and looking supremely bored.

“Aww, don’t be like that.” He walks up with his friend trailing behind. “Jay, this is Théo.” He mangles the French accent so badly that I’m surprised his friend doesn’t just let the board drop on his head.

I narrow my eyes, but Thomas just laughs. “He’s not married, I promise. We’ve been roommates since college.”

I turn to say hi, but get distracted by a cloud of cigarette smoke. Coughing, I wave my hand around to try to dispel some of the stench. I stare at Thomas’s friend, wondering how on earth someone who was raised in the era of public service announcements can willing put that trash into his body. “Smoking is really bad for you.”

“Huh,” Théo says, taking another draw and blowing the smoke out slowly. “Imagine that. They should put that on the package.”

The rolling sound of his g’s and the way his stylish pants rest on his ass would no doubt be a turn-on in any other situation, but all I can concentrate on right now is the cigarette smoke. Combined with the blood loss, it’s making me more than a little light-headed, and to my absolute embarrassment, I fall forward into Thomas.

“Woah, Princess,” he says, slowly lowering me until I’m nestled carefully on the sidewalk, my back propped against a tree. “No need to swoon.”

“Fuck you,” I slur, my head swimming. “I’m bleeding.”

He glances down and finds the blood-soaked gauze and is suddenly serious. “Jesus, Jay. What happened?”

“Business end of a glass,” I mumble, slumping back against the tree. I’ve never been the best with the blood.

“All right, we’ll get Théo to take a look at it, he’s a lifeguard.”

“A lifeguard?” I try to stand, but manage to slump against Thomas’s shoulder instead.

“That’s the ticket,” he says with a grin. “Should have known it would take a little sweat and blood to get you cuddled up in here.”

“That’s just, way beyond inappropriate.” I feel a prodding at my foot, and look down to find Théo rooting at the gauze, his cigarette hanging from his lips.

“Don’t blow smoke in my cut,” I say, annoyed that he still hasn’t put it out.

“ _Charmant_ ,” he mutters, and then devolves into a stream of French that’s too quick for my limited one-semester-in-college experience. “Okay,” he says, adjusting his horn-rimmed glasses. “He’s going to need a doctor.”

I glance up from my position on Thomas’s shoulder, and notice that from this angle I can almost pretend that he’s Alec. They have the same sharp jaw and black hair. Even the long, pale fingers that are currently taking my pulse look the same. “I don’t think I can drive,” I moan.

“Neither can you,” Théo says, handing the board over to Thomas. “You’ve been drinking and everyone else is going to show up soon.”

“I’ll call a cab,” I say. I dig around in my pockets, only to remember that my phone is currently in pieces against my kitchen wall. “Fuck, I forgot. I killed my phone.”

“Was it smoking?" Théo grins and then takes his cigarette and crushes it beneath his shoe with exaggerated slowness. “There.” His voice is like a throaty purr. “Now let’s get you to a doctor.”

It’s not until we’re halfway down the block that I realize what a colossally stupid idea this is. Everything I know about Thomas wouldn’t fill an index card, and I know even less about Théo. He could be some kind of serial killer, driving me to the outskirts of town to harvest my organs. I think of Alec and Magnus, who are probably curled up in Alec’s apartment in New York, watching whatever geeky movie Alec has picked out, with Kipling and Hector curled up at their feet, and I almost wish that he was. My blood curdles with every new image my traitorous brain conjures up, and I think that maybe my organs are a lot more trouble than they’re worth.

It doesn’t take long for me to get stitched up and sent on my merry way with a prescription for painkillers. In a spark of gallantry that’s in complete opposition to the way he treated me outside my house, Théo runs into the pharmacy to pick up the pills, leaving me to bask in the air-conditioned car.

He chucks the pills onto my lap as he shuts the door, and I notice that he’s smoking another cigarette. He rolls down a window, as if that’s going to actually do anything to save my car from the smell, and just stares back when I glare at him.

“Throw that out,” I demand, all my good will siphoned out the window along with the smoke.

He reluctantly obliges. As he pulls to a stop at a red light, he turns to face me, and I can feel the weight of his judgment as he slowly looks me over. “Bit of an ungrateful bastard, aren’t you?”

“Why, because I don’t want lung cancer?”

He just rolls his eyes and pulls carefully out onto the street.

“What is with the French, anyway?” I grumble. It comes out harsher than I intended – something about Théo inspires an abrupt antagonism that I usually do a better job of concealing. “The lot of you smoke like chimneys.”

“It’s the sensuality of it,” he replies, not bothering to call me out on the blatant stereotyping. “The French are a very orally-oriented people.” He shrugs, and that singular action makes him seem more French than the accent or the cigarettes. It’s distinctly European, in the same way as his perfect haircut and patterned scarf. “It also helps that we’re not as uptight as you Americans,” he adds.

“I don’t think there’s anything uptight about Americans not wanting their lungs to turn to tar.” I cross my arms. “And I certainly don’t think there’s anything sexy about smoking.”

“Well,” Théo says as we pull into my driveway. “That’s why I make a point of not fucking guys who already have sticks up their asses.” He throws the car into park and tosses the keys at me over the hood. “It was a pleasure, really,” he says as he lights another cigarette. “Let’s do it again some time.”

I don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer.

* * *

 

Work, if at all possible, gets even worse. Nearly half the class fails the midterm – a fact that does not go unnoticed by the dean. He invites several other members of the faculty – professors who’ve made their opinion about my parentage and how they think I got this job perfectly clear – to our private meeting, and they provide condescending options for how I can “liven up the classroom” while feeling vindicated by the fact that I’m failing so miserably. They also introduce me to a website – Rate My Prof – that’s filled with alternating accounts of the hamster cage incident, a healthy dose of vitriol, and a smattering of comments about how nice my ass looks when I bend over my desk. I have a quality rating of 0.6/5 and that tells me everything I need to know, really. I leave the meeting with my ears burning and with an overwhelming urge to call my sister. We haven’t spoken since the night I found out about Alec and Magnus, and I haven’t bothered to send her my new cell number yet, but I think it’s time to give in.

The time that I don’t spend engulfed in paperwork, I whittle away scouring through social media sites, torturing myself with images of Alec and Magnus. I don’t even bother to delete the Internet history anymore, knowing that it’s pointless to lie to myself. I follow my ex-boyfriend’s movements like some kind of psychopathic stalker, and it’s only after I almost slip to my mother that Alec and Magnus spent the weekend at Cape Cod that I realize the extent of my problem. I do the only thing I can think of and download a program on all of my devices that blocks me from the Internet. Then, with nothing else to distract me, I escape to the beach. 

* * *

 

“You’re looking particularly gorgeous today, Princess,” Thomas purrs, his wetsuit half unzipped and hanging below his waist.

I ignore him, as usual, as I’ve learned over the past few weeks – along with the fact that he’s of a singular mind when he’s decided that he wants to worm his way into someone’s life – that’s the quickest way to get him to shut up. While surfing has helped take my mind off the big fat gay adventures of Alec and Magnus, it’s also given Thomas the impression that I’m about to give in to his advances. He’s completely shameless – going so far as to flirt when he’s there with some other guy – but even his lechery is preferable to Théo’s unwarranted churlishness and mightier-than-thou attitude. Along with an unwanted, all-access pass to his wildest sex stories, the minute I gave in and accepted Thomas’s friendship, that concession meant I also inherited my very own brooding European. He spends most of his time on the beach, smoking his cigarettes and reading obscure French novels, and undoubtedly thinking he’s better than everyone. He refuses to wear sunglasses, instead sprawling out under the cover of his striped umbrella, sipping glass bottles of coke and chatting away to his dog like he’s the star of some kind of avant-garde fifties-era film.

I make the mistake of calling him out one afternoon when he criticizes my form, only to find out that he doesn’t stay on the beach because he doesn’t know _how_ to surf, but because he surfs _so well_ that he doesn’t want to make everyone else uncomfortable. Thomas makes the mistake of asking him to give me some pointers when we’re out on a particularly rough day, but he just blows smoke in my direction and mutters that _there are some things that can’t be taught_. I contemplate burying him alive, but decide that it’s not worth the trouble.

Still, despite his insufferable attitude and Thomas’s relentless philandering, they’re really the only people I have in this city. If nothing else they break up the monotony. Plus, if I’m being completely honest with myself, sometimes, when he’s cresting a wave and his hair is slicked back and his face is made hazy by the spray, I glance over at Thomas and find Alec staring back at me. For those brief seconds, before I notice that the jaw is a little off and the lips are a shade too red, I can imagine my life as it should have been, rather than how it’s turned out to be. 

* * *

 

Weeks pass, and my life seems to be getting marginally better. I make plans with Thomas, and while Théo is often the unappreciated byproduct of those social interactions, I at least have something to talk to Emma about when she does her biweekly checkups. I’m about to head over to Théo’s – where Thomas is alone for the weekend, since Monsieur Sophisticated is gone to a private cinema screening, which I am absolutely, one hundred percent _not_ jealous about – when the phone rings.

Emma’s gone to a medical conference in Luxembourg and my mother hasn’t called me since our fight about Alec, so I eye the caller-id warily for a moment before picking up.

“Hello?” The connection is tinny and no one answers, so I assume it’s some kind of telemarketer. Not particularly interested in improving my credit score, I get ready to end the call when I’m stopped by a small, familiar voice.

“Jay?”

That one word sends a frisson of dread straight through my spine. I grope for a chair and fall into it heavily. The wood strains with the effort of supporting my entire body weight, but I make no move to change position.

“Alec?” He sounds exactly like he did that last night we spent together – unsure and immeasurably sad. My heart pounds a staccato beat against my chest, and I dampen the burgeoning hope that threatens to spill outward. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer for a moment, and I can picture him perfectly in my mind: his lower lip caught between his teeth; his hand tiptoeing nervously across his leg; and his body curled up as small as he can make it, as if he’s expecting a blow. He has never been one for confrontation; it was part of what I thought made us so compatible.

“You told your mother about Magnus,” he says, his voice a little stronger now. “What he used to do for a living.” I notice the past tense and wonder what Magnus is doing now. What’s he even qualified to do? I think fleetingly about my mother’s gold-digging accusation and decide that maybe she wasn’t so far off. The thought makes me irrationally upset, as if Alec is still mine to protect.

“Maybe I did,” I lash out, falling quickly into old habits. The drive to argue is a difficult one to repress, especially when I don’t have regular court dates as an outlet, and I’ve never been good at taking criticism. “Trying to erase that chapter of his life, is he? Becoming your kept boy?”

“Don’t,” Alec says, and his voice is low and dangerous in a way I’ve never heard before. “Whatever this is, whatever you’re trying to do, don’t you dare insult Magnus. You have no idea what his life has been like – what he’s been through.”

Hearing Alec talk like that – confidently and full of unrestrained emotion – unleashes the darkest, ugliest part of myself. “Frankly, I think you should be a little more worried about what he’s been through,” I sneer, knowing, even as I say the words, that they’re unforgivable.

“Since when are you this person?” Alec asks. He sounds genuinely hurt and shame blossoms in my chest, punctuating my anger. “I understand that I hurt you and I really am sorry, but I never thought it would come down to this.”

Completely confused and thrown a little off-guard by Alec’s intensity, I fail to answer in time. “Magnus isn’t ashamed of what he’s done,” Alec continues. “But that doesn’t give your mother the right to humiliate him in front of people he barely knows.”

“Alec, what are you talking about?”

“Don’t play stupid with me, Jay. She told me at the party that you’re the one who told her to ask Magnus about being a stripper. In front of all my mother’s work associates. How could you do something like that?”

I’m so sick of being caught unaware, of the people in my life assuming that I have access to unknowable information. “I’m in _California_ , Alec. Don’t put whatever class issues you have about your relationship over on me. Just because your little boy-toy doesn’t fit in – ”

“Is that what you think of me?” Alec’s voices wavers, but he continues. “You think that I would throw away everything we had together for some kind of fling?” His voice picks up again and I move the phone a little further away from my ear. “You know what, even if I had, then you should still be pissed at _me_. _I’m_ the one who broke your heart and _I’m_ the one who left. Magnus didn’t grow up in the same world we did, Jay, and the last thing he needs is someone reminding him of that when he’s most vulnerable.” The phone rattles a little as Alec switches ears. “I mean, I know lawyers are conniving, but I expected better from you. I expected better from both of you.”

I feel like all of the air has been sucked from my lungs. I can’t believe that my mother did this. I knew I shouldn’t have told her anything – she can never just leave well enough alone. The small bubbles of hope fizzle like acid in my throat. “Well, sorry to disappoint,” I manage to squeeze out.

“I get that you feel like someone needs to be punished for what happened,” Alec says, his voice quiet again. “But this isn’t Magnus’s fault. If you want to hurt someone, then hurt me, not the person I love.”

 _The person I love_. He says it so simply, so naturally, that I know it’s not an underhanded way of making me pay for what’s happened. I’m not even sure Alec is capable of being underhanded. Unlike my damn mother.

How the tables have turned. I used to be the person Alec looked to when he needed something. When he was upset or overwhelmed. Now it looks like I’m public enemy number one. “I’ll talk to my mother,” I say, and then I promptly hang up. I power down the phone before Alec has a chance to redial, and set it on the table in front of me.

_The person I love._

The first time Alec told me he loved me we were driving to some kind of charity function that his mother was hosting, and we were listening to my iPod. A song came on that I hated, but Alec loved – I had downloaded the night before when he complained that I had the musical inclinations of a seventy-year-old man – and he just looked over and said it like it was the most natural thing. It was like breathing, his declaration of love, and I had pulled over and dragged him into the back seat and kissed him until we were late for the party. I had whispered the words into his mouth, his neck, his hair, reveling in the way he whispered them back with a small, shy grin.

Drunk with happiness, I was sure that that feeling would last forever. That his simple declaration of love was a sign of our assured future together. The thought of anything coming between us was so absurd that I never even bothered to think it.

I wonder if that’s how Magnus Bane feels now. 

* * *

 

I ring the doorbell five times in quick succession before Thomas appears. He’s topless – as usual – and brandishing a salad fork.

He winks, poking me in the chest with the prongs of the fork. “About time you showed up.”

I grab him by the hips and pull him forward, forcing our lips together. Though I can tell he’s surprised, he melts instantly into the kiss and wastes no time wrapping his arms around my neck and pressing into me. One thing is instantly clear: he definitely hasn’t been exaggerating about his expertise. He pushes me into the wall in a flurry of teeth, tongue, and small, short pants against my neck, and while objectively the kiss _feels_ good, I can’t erase the accompanying sense of _wrongness_. His lips are just a touch too thin and his hands are not quite wide enough. The rough way he presses my against the wall is nothing like the sweet, soft touches I’m used to, and I feel stupid that I thought that’s why this would be better.

Still, there’s no point to turn back now. “Still want to fuck?” I pant as he lifts my shirt over my head and starts to kiss across my chest.

“Vigorously and repeatedly,” he replies, nipping at my skin.

I press him down to the floor, shivering as he pulls my pants along with him. “Just – no talking,” I say, letting my head fall back into the wall. I run my hands through his black hair, watching as it slips like silk through my fingers. “Please, just stay quiet.”


	2. Chapter Two

In his haste to undo my jeans, Thomas drops the salad fork right on my toes.

“Jesus, Thomas,” I hiss. “Watch what you’re doing. ”

“Sorry, sorry.” Thomas quickly squats, then picks up the toe in question and brings it toward his lips.

“What I you doing?” I jump backward with a yelp, hitting my head on a low-hanging coat rack. “Shit!”

He looks up and his blue eyes momentarily distract me; right now, they’re almost the exact same shade as Alec’s. “Kissing it better,” he says, grinning. “What does it look like?”

I wriggle my foot out of his grasp. “You do not kiss feet.”

He laughs, low and sultry, and despite myself I shiver in anticipation. Thomas is a man who’s used to getting what he wants through whatever means necessary, and that has me conjuring up a whole host of depraved scenarios that would require copious amount of alcohol to even acknowledge aloud.

“Oh, Princess,” he purrs, running his hand up the inside of my thigh, slipping it beneath my shorts. “There is no part of this gorgeous body that isn’t for kissing.”

I tentatively put my leg back on the floor. I don’t bother to show my displeasure at the nickname, as I’m sure it would only delight him. “Well, just keep it above the ankle.”

Not feeling the need to answer verbally, Thomas just leans in and licks a thin stripe behind my knee. It’s all I can do to keep it from buckling. His nose pushes against the sensitive skin and nips teasingly, moving slowly upward. At the same time, he trails the hand that’s inside my shorts slowly downward, tickling the skin of my inner thigh, and I clamp down on the urge to giggle. I take deep breaths in through the nose and out the mouth, focusing on the tiny, sucking kisses instead of the sensory overload from his fingertips. My legs shake with the effort of holding back laughter, and confused, Thomas draws back and looking up at me once again.

“You having some sort of fit up there?”

“It tickles,” I admit. “Your fingers. Maybe we shouldn’t stand. We could move to…” I trail off, looking around the house. I’m certain that Théo would hate the thought of us fucking on the sofa, and I’m not really sure if that’s a deterrent or an incentive.

“The bed?” Thomas looks up through hooded eyes. “Yes, excellent plan. To the bed!” He herds me up the stairs, swatting my ass when I don’t move quickly enough. I turn around to glare at him, which just makes the silly pervert even more determined. He practically throws me into the bed, pinning my wrists above my head. Though we’re the same height, his slender body fits on top of mine without causing any major discomfort.

“Now,” he says, grinding his hips down and enjoying the way my breath catches at the sudden spark of sensation, “let’s get down to business.” He kisses his way into my mouth with no preamble, slick and dirty and almost unnaturally hot, but all I can picture is Alec. With every roll of Thomas’s hips I feel a little hornier, but also a little dirtier. Though everything I know of Thomas ensures me that he wouldn’t be hurt by this admission, it still feels wrong. I think that maybe the kissing, though it has none of the soft, sweet quality of what I used to share with Alec, is a little too intimate; for the first time with someone new I may need a little more distance. I push back on his shoulders, shuddering a little as he nips on my lip in protest.

When he raises his head his pupils are blown, his red lips are puffy, and there’s a distinct flush across his cheekbones. Objectively, he’s probably even better looking than Alec. Right now, he looks like a debauched angel and for the first time I fully believe that a married man would follow him home like a lovesick puppy with very little coercion. Still, as beautiful as he is, I can’t shake the queasiness in the pit of my stomach. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks a little like a deer caught in headlights, and I can’t help but laugh. “If sex makes you this stupid, maybe you should think about cutting back a little.”

He smiles, slow and lazy, and thrusts his hips slowly. “I would rather wander the earth as an uneducated ruffian,” he says proudly. He peels my t-shirt up over my head and descends to kiss along my chest. “Intelligence is overrated.”

“Huh,” I answer, a little high-pitched. “That’s just so,” – I wriggle as he runs his tongue around the edge of my nipple, and any hint of rebuke vanishes as my thoughts fizzle into pleasure. He nips again, sharply this time, and with the unexpected jolt of pleasure-pain I kick out by accident, getting him right in the kneecap.

“Shit, I’m sorry!” I roll out from beneath him and bend down to inspect the damage. “I’m so sorry.”

“No harm done,” he pants. “Let’s just be thankful it wasn’t a little higher.” He flops back on the pillow, folding his arms behind his head. “You can always nurse me back to health.”

“All right. Okay.” I flush a little, wishing I had something sexier to say, and run my fingers lightly up his sides. He shivers, which I take as a good sign, but I’m not really sure where to go from there. “Is it all right, if I?” I tug at his shorts tentatively.

He lifts his hips with another grin. “If I ever tell a gorgeous man that it is not okay to take down my shorts, then please, put me out of my misery.”

Rolling my eyes I start to tug them down and then realize that I haven’t done this with someone who wasn’t Alec in _years_. In fact, other than a disastrous attempt in college, I’ve never done this with _anyone_ but Alec, and I’m not sure how other people even _like_ it. I mean, it’s pretty simple: you put someone’s dick in your mouth and bob your head around. Except Alec used to always make sure it was… _clean_ when I went down there and suppressing my gag reflex has always been a little hard and I have to work my way up and I’m not even sure if guys who have regular, casual sex use condoms for blowjobs and this is all becoming much more complicated than I anticipated. I freeze, with my hand half on Thomas’s dick, feeling a little dizzy.

“Jay?” Thomas pushes me off his lap and sits up. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t –” I take a deep, fortifying breath, and admit what I’ve known all along. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Thomas’s face softens and I feel a rush of genuine affection for him. For all his preening and promiscuity, he’s never been anything but a good friend. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” He places his hand over mine. “I’ll take care of you, if that’s what you need?”

“No, I don’t think. I don’t know –“ I duck my head and trace the pattern that runs along his comforter. “I don’t think I can do any of this. I mean…casually.”

“Oh no.” I look up just in time to watch Thomas flop back onto the bed, his face even paler than usual. He grimaces and then slaps his hand over his forehead. “I can’t believe it. I knew this would happen. My mum always told me this cherub face would be my damnation.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Well, it’s bloody obvious, right?” He sighs and sits back up, taking both my hands in his this time. “You’ve gone and fallen in love with me.”

He must take my open-mouthed surprise for confirmation, because he groans again. “It’s the hair, right? Bollocks, it’s the lips! Blokes are always going on about the lips. There’s nothing I can do about those. Let them get all cracked and chapped, I suppose.” He looks horrified at the very thought. He springs up from the bed and peers at himself in the full-length mirror standing opposite. “I could get a haircut – but I love my hair. I’ve had a real craving for chilli-cheese fries lately – I suppose I could put on a few pounds, see if that worked.”

“You think someone would fall out of love with you for being _fat_?”

“Oh Princess, that is so sweet. You’d love me even if I was pudgy.” He sits back on the bed and lifts up my hand to kiss it.

I yank my hand away from his mouth, and he nearly falls right into my lap.

“Oh, don’t be like that, please. We’re neighbors! And best mates! I won’t forgive myself if I’ve gone and bollocksed it all up.”

“Then please,” I beg. “Stop talking this instant.” I clamp my hand over his mouth, not moving it until I’m sure he’s finished with the hysterics. “Number one: I am not in love with you.” His shoulders sag in relief and I resist the urge to push him off the bed. “Number two: this ISN’T EVEN YOUR HOUSE! It’s Théo’s, so we’re not technically neighbors.”

Thomas mock raises his hand, delighting when I glare at him. “But we are mates?” he clarifies.

“Yes, Thomas, we’re mates.”

“Good, then as a mate, I would just like to ask: what the hell got into you before you came over? I mean, if I get a _vote_ I would just like to say that I am one hundred percent behind every greeting you ever give me starting with a lovely bit of tongue, but –”

“Aurgh. Stop. Making. Words.” I pick up a pillow and press it into his face. “I just – Jesus this is embarrassing. I got a call from Alec –”

“Alec being the boyfriend who’s got you all twisted about cheating?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Except he wasn’t my boyfriend, he was my fiancé.” I take a breath and just charge through the story without looking up. “We were together for years, and then we hit this rut. Or at least, I thought it was a rut, until I found out he was cheating on me. I couldn’t – I wanted – I couldn’t just give up on him, and I thought that getting engaged would _help_ somehow, so that happened. It lasted all of a couple weeks before he gave me back the ring and walked away.”

“Jesus, Jay.” Thomas leans in and puts his head on my shoulder, but I find that I don’t really mind. He turns and kisses my neck softly, and there’s nothing sexual about it; it’s just sweet. “I’m really sorry.”

“Me too. Anyway, tonight he called and I thought – only for _like three seconds_ , but apparently that was enough – that he was going to tell me he made a mistake. But instead it was to tell me off for something my pathologically interfering mother pulled in New York. Apparently he’s in _love_.”

“Fuck.” Thomas nuzzles a little closer, but then pulls away, energized by a sudden revelation. “So what you’re saying,” he says, his eyes brightening. “Is that you were here to use me for revenge sex?”

I stammer out a response, but Thomas just _beams_ and I hide my face in the pillow in shame. “It’s true! This is surprisingly hot.”

“It is not hot, it’s horrible! Honestly, there is something wrong with you!” I kick my leg out, catching him in the ribs. “My sister is a shrink, maybe I should get her to come have a chat with you.”

“Hey, don’t put your sex issues on me, Princess. It’s not my fault that you’re so innocent.

“I’ve spent the last several years dismantling mega corporations and grinding whatever opposition came after me into the ground. I am _not_ innocent.”

“Oh, but you are.” He runs his fingers along my waistline, raising his eyebrows when I splutter in indignation. “You’ve probably never ever had a one-night stand, have you?”

I haven’t, but I’m not about to tell him that. “I did a lot of clubbing before I met Alec.” Clubbing that ended with me going home alone at the end of the night, terrified of STI’s and getting mugged in a dirty bathroom.

“Of course you did, Princess.”

Thomas looks at me like I’m some sort of adorable puppy, so I kick him again for good measure. “I’m not going to stay here just for you to be a dick. If I wanted to be condescended to, I would wait until Théo came home to come over.”

“All right, I apologize. May I ask another personal question?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Excellent! When was the last time you wanked?”

“Wanked?”

“Yeah, you know,” – he makes a crude hand gesture – “flogged the hog, choked the chicken?” He takes in my horrified expression and says, in a lofty accent, “Masturbated?”

“That is none of your business.”

“Jay, as a friend, I’m concerned about your well-being. You spend all your days with those little baby lawyer hellions or grading bullshit papers, and if you keep all that cum locked up, then soon you’re going to explode. Your dick is just going to spontaneously combust, and that’s really a shame, because I’m one hundred percent sure that it’s a lovely dick.”

“What college did you go to?” I ask, wishing I could scorch my eardrums. “Where did you learn science? What college would take you?”

“Well,” he says, pressing his hands together. “Saying Théo and I were college roommates might have been a bit generous on my part. I mean, _he_ was in college, and we were _technically_ roommates. It’s not my fault he didn’t charge –“

“Okay, so you’re a long-time mooch, I get it. Continue with your wildly inappropriate questions.”

“Cheers,” he answers. “To hell with medicine or any of that trash. If there’s one thing I know, it’s sex. And I am absolutely certain that you need to get off, somehow. Now, if you want to go home and have some privacy, then by all means.” He gestures toward the door. “But if you wanted a little friendly help, then I’m not at all opposed.”

“What kind of friends do you have? Is that what you and Théo do here all day – jerk each other off?”

Thomas visibly blanches. “Please, that’s a line even I won’t cross. He’s like my brother. Thinking of his bits just – ” He shudders again, then moves a little closer. “I don’t want to pressure you into doing something you don’t want to do, Princess. But when I say that I would be happy to help you along, then you must know I mean it with the utmost sincerity.”

I hesitate. I mean, what Thomas is offering seems ideal, but there’s a small part of me that believes that it’s too good to be true. That there are no true friends with benefits and that one of us is going to get hurt. Still, he’s right – I can’t even remember the last time I could touch myself without thoughts of Magnus fucking Bane flickering in my head. “Okay.” I pull him down so that we’re lying side-by-side this time.

“Thank God,” Thomas buries his face in my neck and _groans_ , the sound shooting straight to my cock. “Seriously, if you had left without me at least getting to see that gorgeous arse of yours, I would have wept.”

“You’re such a pervert,” I laugh as he kisses his way back down my chest, palming my cock as he moves. He slides my shorts down and moans again. “I’m serious. I would bury my head right in there if you’d let me.”

My legs twitch involuntarily closer together and Thomas looks up, disappointed. “Is that a no?”

“It’s my ass,” I say. “I mean, there are some places a tongue just shouldn’t go.”

Thomas gapes at me. “You mean you were about to marry a man who’d never even had his tongue in your arse?”

“Yes, I mean, well, he _offered_. I just, didn’t. Like it. Want it. Whatever. Can we just get on with it?”

“Oh Princess, you do not know what you are missing out on.” He shrugs and then sidles back up to kiss me, slow and wet. “No worries, I have a feeling that right now you’re not up for anything too complicated.”

Now that I’m thinking about it, the need to come is almost overwhelming. Just the light pressure of Thomas’s shorts against my cock is enough to almost send me over the edge. “Just haul your pants down,” I say. “I don’t think it’s going to last long.”

He pulls them down with one hand, shimmying his hips a little, and then lines up so that he can bring us off at the same time.

At the first press of hot skin, I think I might lose it. I manage to hold my orgasm back, and just gulp in a half-strangled breath of air. Thomas makes a pleased noise in the back of his throat, and comes back up to kiss me. Now that there’s no pressure, everything feels amazing. The skin-against-skin, the way that Thomas can find a way to jerk us both off while still running his fingers over the head of my cock, the smooth, slick feeling of his tongue against mine. The pressure builds, and it’s all of three minutes before I’m whimpering and coming all over his hand like a teenager. I don’t have much room for embarrassment though, because Thomas, as oversexed as he is, finishes immediately after.

“That’s the way,” he mumbles, kissing sloppily at my jaw. “Isn’t that better?”

“Yeah,” I say, still a little dazed that I’ve done something like this. “It is, actually.”

Thomas rolls to the side, caring very little about the mess that he’s smearing over his bedclothes. I reach behind me, trying to find something I can use to clean off. “God, you’re hot,” he says, running his arm along my bicep. “Want to go again?”

My stomach picks that time to grumble loudly. “Right,” he says, getting up and grabbing a couple of facecloths from his ensuite bathroom. “Food first, fuck later?” 

* * *

 

Before we can even set the table to eat our salmon kabobs and salad, the door bursts open and Théo comes storming in, his scarf flying behind him and his glasses falling halfway down his face.

I don’t even realize, until he stops and stares, openmouthed, that Thomas and I are in nothing but our boxers. Théo turns his head quickly, but not before I see the hint of a blush spreading along his pale cheeks. I would think that having spent so much time around Thomas, he’d be used to this type of behavior. I wonder if maybe the real reason they don’t sleep together has far less to do with the fact that Thomas sees him as a brother, and far more to do with the fact that Théo doesn’t want to have to share. I’ve seen the way he covets a bottle of coke; I can’t imagine what he’d be like with a person.

Thomas just picks up a skewer and pushes it toward his face, obviously unashamed by his attire. “Salmon-kebab?”

“As if I want food poisoning,” he spits, decidedly avoiding staring in my direction.

“For your information, Mon-sieur Doom and Gloom, Jay helped me make these.” He takes a bite, and gives an exaggerated moan.

Feeling extremely awkward and with no polite way to run upstairs and put some clothes on, I push away the impulse to cover myself with the table cloth and instead decide to just jump in on the conversation. “What happened to your film festival?”

Théo looks at me like I’m speaking Russian.

“Right,” Thomas says through a mouthful of salmon. “Film festival weekend. Why are you back?”

“Riley showed up,” Théo spits, looking murderous.

Thomas nearly gags on his next piece of fish. “Oh fuck,” he says, “Double fuck.”

Before I can ask who Riley is, Théo storms up the stairs, flinging random pieces of outerwear behind him. It’s been drizzling, and I can tell that the clothes are going to leave stains on the hardwood.

“Jay, I’m so sorry,” he says, putting his salmon back in the dish and taking my hands in his. “I don’t mean to treat you like last week’s slag, but I really need to go take care of this.” There’s a crash and a stream of French cursing above our heads. “I’ll run up and get your clothes, yeah?”

“Yeah, sure.” If whatever is happening means more to Thomas than getting laid, then it must be important. Plus, the quicker I can get out of the house before Théo decides he needs someone to strangle, the better.

Thomas is gone just long enough for me to pick Théo’s wet clothes up from the floor and arrange them neatly on the table, and the only delay in my departure comes from Thomas finding every opportunity he can to grab my ass. “It’s a fucking work of art,” he insists as I finally manage to pull up my pants. He leans in and kisses me softly on the mouth. “I’ll drop round tomorrow, yeah?”

“Sure.” Another muffled yell echoes down the stairs. “See you then.”

Thomas is running up to Théo’s bedroom as I’m walking out the door, and I itch to creep back inside. Théo is a pretentious asshole, but I’ve never really stopped to wonder why. Maybe this Riley dude is the reason. If so, then I can definitely empathize. Maybe Thomas will tell me when things have cooled down a little. I think about the way he’d sprawled over the bed, blissed out and incoherent after his orgasm, and I smile. It’ll be almost too easy to get him to spill.

My curiosity burns as I head down to the beach to take the long way home. Suddenly, I can’t wait until tomorrow. I really hate secrets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for being here, all you lovely people. Whether you're here because you love Jay (heey-oh!) or because you're hoping for a glimpse of Malec (it will happen in an upcoming chapter), or just because you're sweet (i love you) I am ever so grateful. Let me know what you're thinking :)


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated M for Might-not-wanna-read-at-work ;)

Thomas, as it turns out, has better resolve than I gave him credit for. He refuses to tell me anything about the elusive Riley, even when, blissed out and post-coital, I let him cuddle into my chest while I play with his hair. While I thought that the frivolity of our relationship would preclude such intimate scenarios, Thomas has once again surprised me. He loves to cuddle, and practically wraps himself around me like a kraken, trapping me to his bed, the sofa, or the beach until he’s had his fill. I’m also surprised to find that I don’t mind – cuddling with Thomas is almost like cuddling a puppy, and it provides me with the opportunity to try to pry information from him. I try underhanded comments, reverse psychology, genuine empathy, and outright bribery, but he just will not budge.

“Just ask him yourself,” he says one day as we’re lying on the beach, watching other surfers brave the cool November waves and trying to work up the courage to go out ourselves.

I pout and pull away from him, burying my arms in the soft sand. “You know he hates me.” I’m not really sure why, but all evidence points to the fact. He’s polite enough and has never asked me to leave or excluded me from his plans, but he never goes out of his way to be nice, either. Sometimes, when Thomas gets a little handsy and I’m too tired or horny to tell him to back off, Théo will make an excuse to leave the room. I’ve also questioned Thomas about his history with his roommate, but for someone so open he can be irritatingly closed-lipped when he wants.

He leans over and rubs his nose against my neck, sending a wave of heat straight to my gut. “For the hundredth time, Princess, he does not hate you.” He pauses for a second, and then continues. “He’s prickly at the best of times and he just…doesn’t like lawyers.”

“I am a lawyer!”

“A fact that I am quite willing to forgive,” Thomas says, reapplying his sunscreen. His skin is so pale that if he doesn’t do it every thirty minutes he burns as bright as a lobster. “Just give him some time to warm up.”

“He’s not a fucking icicle,” I grouse. “He shouldn’t need time to thaw. Plus, it’s been months. I don’t know why he has to be so damn uptight all the time.”

In his surprise, Thomas squirts a stripe of sunblock right across his body onto my arm. “Could we rewind just for a moment, love. Did I just hear you call someone else uptight?”

I turn to glare at Thomas, and he retaliates by smearing a glob of his SPF nine thousand into my face. “If I get a tan in the shape of your finger, I will kill you,” I warn. “And also, not allowing tongues in your ass does not make you uptight. It makes you sensible.” 

“Because that’s what makes life fun,” Thomas pouts. “Being sensible.” After a quick look around he lifts up the back of my shorts and peers down, letting his hand run down the smooth skin. “It’s just not fair,” he moans. “The world’s most perfect arse, and the most you’ll let me do is grab it a bit.”

“Yes, you live a life of true hardship.”

Thomas adjusts his sunglasses and settles back down on his towel, draping his foot over mine. “Some days,” he says, scooting just close enough that our skin is almost touching, but far enough away that he knows I won’t complain about being in public, “I just don’t know if I’ll make it through.” 

* * *

 

November slips away slowly, and by the time exam week is poised to begin, I find myself once again in the Dean of Law’s office, attempting to appear contrite when all I really want to do is rage at the fact that I’m being punished for not coddling my lecture hall full of ungrateful, unmotivated shits. My final exam is on the desk, being inspected by the other members of the faculty to make sure that it’s “appropriate”. Like the students, I feel exhausted and drained. I just want to get this term under my belt so I can start anew. I already have a folder full of lecture plans for January, and I plan to spend most of my Christmas vacation perfecting them.

“James?” The Dean is looking at me like I’ve just stated my intent to transfer to the mathematics faculty and Professor Wozney sighs heavily from her place in the corner.

“So it’s acceptable then?” I ask levelly, straightening up and staring around the room to prove to these vultures how little their opinion means to me.

“It’s…adequate,” Wozney says, her nose turning up as she walks through the door.

“Happy Holiday, James,” the Dean says as I’m on my way out.

_Eat a dick, you evil bastard_ , I think as I make my final trek of the semester toward the Lecture Hall D. 

* * *

 

The night before I’m set to leave for Las Vegas to spend Christmas with Emma and Lucas, Thomas decides to throw me a going-away party. Though he says that Théo is fine with it, I think he’s going to have an aneurysm when I walk in the front door, my arms laden with food.

He peers down at the dishes before plucking a cigarette out of his packet. I swear he lights up whenever I walk in the house, just because he knows I hate it. “You know that drunk people don’t care about plate presentation, right?”

“I like things to be done properly,” I say, not bothering to ask him for a hand. I settle the plates down on the counter next to the beer and mix, and wander upstairs to find Thomas. I can hear Théo rearranging the dishes, but I’m as likely to punch him as to thank him for the help, so I continue along my way.

“My, you are stunning.” Thomas walks over and kisses me slowly, his tongue sliding against mine, and his hands creeping downward to cup his favorite body part. It’s been almost a week since I saw him, with exams and correcting, and my hair has gotten unruly in the interim. “Delicious, in fact.” He reaches up and brushes a hand through my hair. “Forgoing the military look?”

“Thought I might let it grow out again,” I admit. I used to think that keeping it short made me look more professional, but the relaxed California atmosphere seems to have had influenced me in at least this one small way. “It gets really curly.”

“Lord help me,” Thomas groans, resting his forehead against mine for a second before he moves back to the mirror to tug the last pieces of his choppy bang into place. “Perfect,” he says, winking at his own reflection. “Now Princess, let’s go set up for the festivities.”

Since Théo is under the impression that “garden parties” are something that are put off by middle-aged WASPS who have nothing better to do than dress up and complain about the state of their own lives, we end up setting up down on the beach. Thomas has gathered up enough driftwood to keep a fire going for most of the night, and though it all feels a little bit frat-boy to me, I try to be grateful. I haul down my own lawn chairs, while Théo and Thomas carry out the mammoth cooler they keep in their basement. It’s fully stocked with beer, liquor, and mix, and I wonder, not for the first time, what exactly Thomas meant when he invited me to an “intimate gathering”.

It means, I find out about an hour or so later, about a hundred and fifty of his closest friends. The crowd is a strange mix of beach bums, rich friends, and stuffy intellectuals who have obviously been invited by Théo. Thomas, being his effervescent self, does an excellent job of introducing me to people my own age, even going to far as to prod me in the direction one Gareth Hardy – a linguistics major who works in the writing center at UCLA with Théo. Gareth is short and sweet, with a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of his nose and pretty green eyes, and I while I’m pretty sure I’m still not ready to get intimate with anyone who isn’t Thomas, there’s no harm in getting him a beer.

“So, you work with Théo?” I ask, glancing across the crowd to search out his shaggy head. Unsurprisingly, he’s lurking on the outskirts of the party with a group of people also clad in skinny jeans and scarves, probably talking about how much they hate the party that’s carrying on behind them.

“Yeah,” Gareth beams, and his smile is so adorable that I have no choice but to smile back.

“That must be a riot.”

“Oh, it is,” he says earnestly. “Théo’s brilliant. He speaks five languages, you know?” I didn’t, and I say so.

“Yeah. French, English, German, Italian, and Spanish.” He ticks off each one with a different finger. He flushes a little at his enthusiasm and makes a visible effort to calm down. “I mean, I’m a linguistics major and I’m struggling with two.” He sighs and then flushes again, looking chagrined.

“Still doing better than me,” I say, grinning at the pleased look on his face. Though I may not want anything to come of this conversation, it’s pretty validating to find that you can still make a cute guy fumble over his words. Getting dumped takes a number on your self-esteem, no matter who you are, and the warmth of the fire combined with the buzz of alcohol is making it easy to get lost in a little flirtatious banter. Gareth goes off to find another drink, and while he’s gone I feel a prickling on the back of my neck. I look around only to find Théo glaring daggers at me across the fire. He looks away as soon as I meet his gaze, but I know that I’m not imagining things. I get up – emboldened by the alcohol – to ask him what his damn problem is, but a flicker of movement in the corner of my eye distracts me before I can fight my way out of the crowd.

Thomas is leaning against an old, broken down fence, just below the beaten up old wharf that separates my house from Théo’s, and there’s a guy dressed in horribly fitting pants and an atrocious Billabong sweater standing just ahead of him. They’re tucked away out of sight, and at first I just roll my eyes; Thomas has already been through at least three guys tonight, and though this one is definitely not the most attractive of the batch, I’m not the one who has to sleep with him. I’m about to move on to ask Théo if he’d finally like to tell me what he’s so damn antagonistic when Billabong reaches out and pins Thomas to the fence. Thomas tries to flick him away, but he’s much too scrawny and much too drunk to put forth a good effort. The guy’s hand migrates upward, fastening tightly around Thomas’s neck, and I sprint toward them, enraged.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Jay.” Thomas’s voice is high and panicked and my hands tighten in rage. I never thought it would make me upset to not hear his stupid nickname. “What’s going on here?” I ask, pushing myself between Thomas and Billabong.

“None of your fucking business, bro.” As if my urge to punch this dick wasn’t strong enough.

“I think maybe you should leave,” I say. “Party’s over.”

“The party hasn’t even started,” he says, shoving me out of the way. “And I’m not leaving until your slutty little boyfriend here tells me what I want to know.”

Billabong is staggering back before I even realize I’ve thrown a punch. My hand throbs painfully, but the rush of having _punched someone in the face_ far outweighs the sting. An enraged yell yanks me out of my testosterone-fueled awe, and I just have time to push Thomas toward Théo, who’s materialized seemingly out of nowhere, before Billabong tackles me like a stampeding bull. Thankfully, all the hours with nothing to do but feel sorry for myself and use my new exercise equipment has helped substantiate my naturally broad frame, and it doesn’t take much effort for me to use his momentum against him and pin him up against the fence.

He squirms ineffectually, and I pull out my best lawyer-face and lean in close. “You listen here you waste of fucking space,” I hiss. “You are going to leave this party and never bother Thomas again, understand?”

He mumbles something under his breath and I slam him back into the old, rotting wood. “If you so much as walk down this beach I will have you brought up on charges you’ve never even heard of so fast that empty fucking head will spin. Understand?”

He scowls, but nods, and slinks away without a backward glance.

When I turn around Thomas and Théo are conversing in rapid-fire French, and Gareth is standing behind me, looking partially awed and partially horrified, holding out a facecloth filled with ice. “For your knuckles,” he says, when he notices my confused expression. I hadn’t even realized they were bleeding.

“My hero!” Thomas shouts when I’ve finished wrapping the makeshift icepack around my hand. He launches himself into me and pulls my head down for a long, deep kiss. A couple of people who are just wandering over catcall, but I understand the kiss for what it really is: reassurance. Thomas has none of his usual finesse; he presses into me with a feverish desperation, and I allow him to take control. His body trembles a little against mine, and I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can.

“It’s okay,” I whisper when we break apart and he buries his face in my neck. “You’re all right.”

Théo pulls Gareth away and stalks back up the beach, yelling that it’s time for people to go home. I take Thomas’s hand and lead him back to the house, grabbing a bottle of water as he walks up the stairs to his room.

“What did that guy want?” I ask quietly as Thomas strips off his clothes and climbs into bed, shivering. I climb in behind him, still fully clothed, and he settles into my arms with a soft sigh.

“He used to date my friend Ally,” Thomas says, shivering a little again. “They broke up a couple of months ago and now he wants to know where she is. Fucking asshole.”

“If he comes near you again, you have to tell me. I wasn’t lying about getting his ass thrown in jail, you know.”

“I know,” Thomas says with a yawn. His shivering has settled now and his exhaustion is swiftly catching up to him. “Thanks, Jay.”

I lean down and kiss his cheek softly. “Anytime,” I promise.

It takes less than a minute for him to fall completely asleep. I leave the bottle of water on his dresser for the morning, and quietly slip out the door.

When I get to the kitchen, I’m surprised to find Théo at the table, opening a bottle of wine. What’s even more surprising is that there are two glasses, and he raises his eyebrows at me before he tips some into the second glass. “Please, sit,” he says as I approach him slowly. I’m not sure if he’s just drunk or planning to poison me. I wait for him to take a sip first, just to be safe.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a fistfight before,” he says. The alcohol amplifies his accent and makes his voice rich and throaty. The sound inspires an instant jolt of attraction, leading me to realize that I’m much drunker than I’d thought. Pushing the thought away, I pause and take the seat across from Théo.

“Let’s hope you don’t have to see one again.” I pick up the glass of wine, twirling it slowly. “At least not from me.”

“You were very gallant.” Théo takes a sip of the wine and I watch the smooth column of his throat rise and fall as he swallows. When I realize that I’m staring I take a hasty sip from my own glass, and find myself overwhelmed by the flavor. It’s cool, crisp, and just sweet enough to burst on the tongue without cloying the senses.

I look up to find Théo looking at me, a small, pleased smile playing at the corners of his lips. “C’est bon?”

“It’s delicious,” I answer truthfully. “It’s probably the best wine I’ve ever had. What is it?” Théo turns the bottle toward me, displaying the label. “Château d'Yquem.”

Théo laughs – probably at my pronunciation – but it has none of its usual bite, so I let it slide. “My Grandmother’s vineyard, in Bordeaux.”

“Your Grandmother owns a vineyard? That’s where you grew up?”

Théo laughs again, taking another sip of wine, and part of me feels like this is some kind of drunken hallucination. I must have fallen asleep upstairs because we are having an actual civil conversation, and Théo is laughing, and I’m actually getting a little scared. “Non,” he says, subconsciously slipping back into French. “My parents are farmers. I grew up in a very small town in Northern France, near a Canadian War Memorial Site.”

I can’t imagine Théo on a farm, milking cows or cutting wheat. A fancy vineyard makes much more sense.

“I met my first boyfriend at the war site,” Théo continues. “He was from Quebec, and I had never heard anyone speak French like him before. I thought he was perfect.”

“But?”

“It was a small town.” Théo shrugs, drinking more of his wine. “I was an only child, and my parents didn’t really know what to do. They sent me to my Grandmother, hoping that she could make me see sense.”

Despite the fact that I know I shouldn’t, I drain my glass quickly and Théo leans over to pour some more wine. “I guess it didn’t work.”

“It worked, just not in the way they were expecting. She taught me so many things about the world. She’s the one that sent me to Oxford. And this is her house.”

“All this time I thought you grew up a spoiled brat,” I tease. “Turns out you were milking cows.”

“People think growing up poor is romantic,” Théo says, and then hesitates. “Where did you grow up?”

“My mom was a District Attorney in New York City.” Théo cringes and it startles another laugh out of me. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. I didn’t grow up much of anywhere except my mother’s office. There were far fewer fundraisers and garden parties than you’d think.” I can see the unasked question on Théo’s face, and since he told me, I decide it’s only fair to reciprocate. “As for being gay, it just gave my mother another crusade to fight for. I became her worthy cause.”

“That’s unfair,” Théo says. Until it’s out of his mouth and in the air, this is something that I’ve never thought. “It’s hard enough just being a worthy son.”

“I didn’t even feel unworthy,” I say truthfully. “Well, at least not until Alec left.”

Maybe it’s the reminiscing and maybe it’s the wine, but thinking about Alec right now is particularly painful. It must show, because Théo’s face twists back into his signature scowl.

“You still love him,” he says flatly. It isn’t a question, but I answer anyway.

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop,” I admit, drunk enough to indulge in a little self-pity.

Théo’s eyes narrow and he gathers up both of our wine glasses with one swift swipe of his hands. “Does Tommy know that?”

Maybe it’s the rapid switch from hot-to-cold, maybe it’s his mightier-than-thou sneer, or maybe it’s the fact that it’s just none of his damn business, but the question makes me snap. “Is that what this is about? You’ve been a total dick to me because you think I’m going to hurt Thomas?”

Théo just gapes at me, as if this completely unfathomable to him, so I barrel on.

“Have you _met_ Thomas? He hit on me every day for months until I finally gave in. And you know what? Fuck you and your judgmental little sighs and sidelong glares. You spend half your time telling me I have a stick up my ass and now you’re going to judge me for having a little fun with my best friend?” I flush at my own use of such a juvenile term, but it’s true. Thomas _is_ my best friend. The first best friend I’ve ever had who didn’t just fall into the position by default.

“He’s my best friend too. I just don’t want him to get hurt.”

“Get hurt?” I laugh and lean over the table.

“You’re jealous,” I hiss, and I know it’s true. Time in the courtroom has taught me how to tell when I’m right. I continue on, emboldened by my success. “Which is absurd, because Thomas is in zero danger of falling in love with me. You should be the last person to think he would – you despise everything about me!”

Théo is so close that I’m afraid I may fog up his glasses just by breathing. I can see the tiny indents in his bottom lip left by his teeth. “I –” he says, then pulls back quickly. “You’re right, it’s completely absurd.”

I stand up quickly, gripping the table so my head doesn’t spin. “You’re absurd,” I spit, aware even in my drunken state that I’ve adopted the argumentative strategy of a two year old. “And a fucking _dick_ ,” I tack on for good measure, escaping before he has time to wipe the stupid look off his face. With any luck he’ll be too drunk to remember this, and by the time I get back in two weeks he’ll have returned to his normally surly, aloof self. 

* * *

 

I feel like shit when I get up to drive to the airport in the morning. Théo’s bottle of wine pushed me from pleasantly buzzed to drunken idiot, and wine has always given me one bitch of a hangover. That’s how it always goes: the only things worth having come with consequences.

Being away from California makes me realize how much I’ve come to enjoy spending time with Thomas – and even Théo, even though I still think he’s a pompous asshole. Thomas is in the middle of texting me this hilarious story about a guy at work who got him edible underwear for the staff Secret Santa, and Emma’s face lights up with curiosity.

“You text Thomas an awful lot,” she comments, her hand resting on the swell of her belly. She’s on full bed rest until the end of her pregnancy, and the Cabin Fever has fully set in. She insists on living her life vicariously through the people around her, and Lucas has sacrificed me for the cause, saying that he’s been paying his dues for weeks.

“Yup.” I continue typing and I can practically feel her burning with curiosity.

“Do you really think that it’s going to work?”

“What, Emma?”

“Your little arrangement.” She shifts awkwardly on the sofa, growling in frustration when she can’t get comfortable.

I smile as Thomas starts typing in all caps. “I know you’re miserable Ems, but don’t take it out on me.”

“God, you are a shit,” she groans. “I’m serious, Jay. Look at how attached you are to him. This can only end badly.”

I throw my phone on the coffee table. This is just like Emma – picking a fight when she knows I can’t fight back. “You sound just like Théo.” I put on an outrageous French accent – _someone is going to get hurt_ – and huff in a way that is not at all becoming in a grown man. “We’re just friends.”

“Théo.” She pauses for a second. “The roommate, right?”

“The homeowner, technically. And Grade-A asshole.”

Emma shifts again, turning so that she’s looking directly at me. “Say again?”

“He’s an asshole,” I repeat. “He’s a pretentious, stubborn, _arrogant_ – ”

“Wow,” Emma interrupts, grinning like a fucking loon this time. “Just wow.” I refuse to engage, not wanting to give her the pleasure of feeling superior.

“You _like_ him,” she continues when I remain silent.

“I hate him.” Especially the way he seems to make me feel like a child, even when he’s not around.

“You get that weird nostril twitch when you talking about him,” she says, peering at me carefully. I clamp my hand over my nose. “You _like_ him.”

I try to take a different approach. “We fight all the time.”

“You’re a lawyer.” She says this as if it’s supposed to explain everything. “Fighting is like an aphrodisiac to you. It’s practically foreplay.”

“Please don’t say foreplay, I don’t want to think about you and foreplay in the same sentence. Especially when you’re –” I gesture at her stomach.

“Pregnant?” she mocks whispers. Then in a ridiculous faux Southern accent, “you’re absolutely right, Sir. We mustn’t talk such filth around the baby.”

I bury my head in my hands, trying to drown out her giggles. “Where is your husband? I think it’s his turn to take over your care.”

“Seriously, Jay. _This_ is why the idea of you having casual sex with anyone blows my mind. You’re such a prude.”

“It’s not that big a deal. It’s not even sex, really. More like amplified cuddling.” I wrap my arms around one of her throw pillows. “Lots of friends cuddle.”

“Amplified cuddling?” She breaks down into giggles again. She lifts her hands up in mock display and deepens her voice to sound like a radio broadcaster. “Amplified cuddling: cuddling, except with dicks.”

In desperate need of a break, I stalk off toward the kitchen, tuning her out as she starts coming up with inappropriate scenarios, using amplified cuddling as the punch line. I ignore her and rifle through the freezer, looking for the container of Haagen-Dazs she was ranting about this morning; perhaps the greatest tragedy of her pregnancy has been that she can’t take a single mouthful of ice cream without instant nausea. She can, however, look at it and remember how _fucking delicious_ it tastes. I grab a spoon from the drawer near the fridge and take the entire tub back to the living room with me. Victory is going to taste amazing.

* * *

 Despite Emma’s bed rest and annoying habit of prying into my personal life, the holiday passes quickly. She insists on keeping up with work even though she literally cannot get off the sofa, and I spend hours perfecting my lectures. Emma steadfastly avoids the topic of Alec, while I’m caught in the agonizing catch-22 of wanting to know how he’s spending our first Christmas apart and knowing that hearing it will be excruciating. I debate calling my mother to ask her, but we haven’t really spoken since her incident in New York, and she’s probably volunteering tonight anyway.

We spend Christmas Eve like we used to when we were kids: eating countless bags of chips and watching The Princess Bride. We fall asleep in the living room and wake up at six in the morning with Lucas creeping around the living room, filling our stockings and trying not to wake us up.

When all the gifts have been opened and all the paper has been cleared away, Lucas disappears outside and comes back with an armful of black fluff.

I barely have time to register my confusion before the little black ball is being tipped into my arms and is snuffling around, licking leftover peanut butter from my fingers.

“Emma, what?” I gape at her, incapable of more intelligent speech.

“He’s a Portuguese water dog,” she says, smiling broadly. “I know how much you miss Kipling and Hector, even if you won’t admit it. They’re supposed to be really smart and he’ll love the water.” She looks so excited, and when the puppy gives a high-pitched bark, she nearly melts into a puddle of goo.

“He’s adorable,” I say, rubbing behind his floppy ears. “This is the best present, Emma.” And it is incredibly thoughtful. The puppy is adorable, and I do miss Kipling and Hector. I’m just not sure that a new puppy is the solution to that problem. This puppy, no matter how adorable, won’t erase the pain of thinking of Magnus and Alec spending Christmas at home with my dogs. Just like spending time tangled up in the sheets with Thomas doesn’t erase the pain of Alec’s absence. Sometimes the pain is easier to mask – with work, with surfing, with amplified cuddling – but at times like this it all comes rushing back. At times like this I’m sure that despite the flashes of happiness and the acceptance that he’s gone, I’ll never been free of Alec’s hold. 

* * *

 

My flight back to California is cursed. There’s no getting around it: it’s been damned by the Gods. First, they overbook, and instead of offering me a complimentary flight or even a fucking _apology_ , I get the courtesy of flying coach or not flying at all. The puppy, which still doesn’t have a name, cries the entire way back, earning me more glares than the mother of the noisy twins two seats up. I’m cramped between two little old ladies who refuse to switch seats because “it’s against the rules” and are carrying on the world’s longest conversation about Mrs. Clancy in apartment three hundred and ten.

When I get home I’m tired, cranky, and lonely. I spent the last two days of my vacation watching Emma and Lucas make googly eyes at each other while I painted the nursery, and while I’m happy for them both, it only served to exacerbate my Christmas funk.

I put the puppy into the little carrier Emma got me, hoping that Thomas will be able to help me name him, and set off across the beach. The lights are dim when I walk up, but the TV is on and the front door is unlocked, so I walk in anyway.

I follow the hushed voices all the way to the living room, expecting to find Thomas and Théo curled up in their respective places on opposite ends of the sofa, tenuously sharing their favorite woolen blanket. Instead I find Théo, naked from the waist down, pushed back against the wall. His shaggy hair is a disaster, flying in every direction, and his ass – his round, perfect ass, which has been significant distraction in the past, despite any qualms I might have about the man to which it's attached – is on full display. His hands are draped down in front of him, clinging to the head of the small, freckled guy that’s kneeling between his legs. It takes me a second to recognize this second person as Gareth, the linguistics major from my going-away party.

Heat pools in my gut as Théo bites down on his bottom lip, murmuring softly in French and threading his hands through Gareth’s hair. Sweat is pooling beneath the fringe of his dark bangs, pulling attention to his missing glasses. He thrusts his hips upward, meeting each bob of Gareth’s head in perfect time, and lets out a low, broken moan as Gareth leans in to take him even deeper.

I’m frozen, paralyzed with the fear of getting caught and pure horror at walking in on something so intimate. Heat bursts in my stomach, and I attribute it to rage. This is just so…unprofessional. Théo works with Gareth, and he’s clearly taking advantage of someone who admires him greatly, and for what? He’d barely given Gareth a second glance at the party until he’d started talking to me. I can’t believe he would sink so low just so that he could one-up me. I don’t even like Gareth. I mean, clearly I like him enough to be indignant on his behalf, but that’s really just common decency.

As I’m trying to figure out how to escape without interrupting the scene in front of me, the puppy decides that it’s time to let out one of his high-pitched barks. Théo’s head snaps back and he immediately relinquishes his grip on Gareth’s head. There’s a nauseating pop as Gareth pulls his mouth away, and his face floods with heat when he turns around to find me watching. Théo curses and pulls at a blanket that’s resting on the chair beside him.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt before either of them can saw a word, and take off for the door. I run across the beach to my house, wondering what the hell I’ve done in a past life to be punished like this. I let the puppy curl up on the bed by my feet, too tired to do anything else, and fall asleep hoping for a better day tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Malec. (Spoiler: it's gonna hurt)


	4. Chapter Four

I wake up the next morning to find Thomas draped against my bedroom door, wearing nothing but a skimpy pair of red and green briefs. “Merry Christmas,” he purrs, grinning when I squawk with fright.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I choke out as he wriggles his way under the blankets, pressing his cold toes into my leg.

“Jimmied the lock,” he says, sighing in contentment as he settles into the warmth.

“Jimmied the lock?”

“That’s what I said.” He slips his hand down my boxers, smiling when I groan in response. “I’m excellent with my hands.”

After a vigorous welcome home, Thomas settles on the bed and plays with the puppy while I do some much needed tidying.

“How about Rusty?” he muses. He buries his face in the puppy’s fur, waiting for me to answer. “Fido?” I shake my head and he sighs. “Flopsy? Mopsy? Cottontail?” His hand gestures get more elaborate with each suggestion, and by the end of his list he looks like he’s having some sort of seizure.

I look up from the floor, where I’m currently organizing my ties by color. “I am not naming my dog after bunnies from a kid’s book.”

“People name dogs after things they like,” Thomas pouts. “You don’t like anything.”

“I like cooking.”

“Oh, well, brilliant. Let’s name the dog Spatula. Or perhaps he’s more of a Blender?”

I pick up my tie rack and place it carefully in the closet, equidistant between my shirts and my pants. “I should have just made Emma name him. That would have solved this entire dilemma.”

Thomas looks horrified. “You can’t let somebody else name your dog!”

I smooth out a pair of pants before turning around so that Thomas can see my pointed eye roll. “Right, so you’re trying to tell me you named Zola? That’s got Théo written all over it.”

“I happen to be a great Zola fan,” Thomas argues. “You could say he changed my life.”

“Or I could say you’re full of shit.” I flop down on the bed next to Thomas and the puppy totters up to lick my face. “Hey buddy,” I coo, unable to help myself. He really is adorable. “You really need a name.” He leans over and licks my nose, most likely in agreement.

“Let’s head over to mine,” Thomas says suddenly, interrupting my conversation with the dog. “A change of scenery might help.”

I freeze, unsure of what to do. With the way Théo and I parted before Christmas and the position I found him in last night, I’m pretty sure I’m the last person he wants to see. I’m also not sure that I can face him without thinking about exactly how he looked pressed up against that wall, flushed and sweaty and thrusting into Gareth’s mouth.

“Théo’s gone for the weekend,” Thomas says, as if he can read my mind. Not for the first time, I wonder how much those two share. I’ve never told Thomas to keep what we do a secret, and it’s not like we’re overly subtle. Still, I wonder if he’s told Théo we haven’t actually _fucked_. “Won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“Gone again? What’s he doing this time?”

“Oh, you know,” Thomas says, scooping the puppy up and putting him in his carrier. “Another gallery opening or something.”

“A gallery opening? Over the Christmas holidays?”

Thomas runs his hands over the carrier, smoothing down the bits of stray fabric. “Maybe it’s a concert. I don’t know, Jay. I’m his roommate, not his bloody mother. I don’t keep track of everything he does.”

It’s the first time in our friendship that Thomas has snapped at me, and it hurts. My irritation flares, and I’m irrationally angry with Théo, sure that this is his fault. He manages to influence my life, even when he’s not around. “I know you’re not, but I find it kind of hard to believe that he disappears every second weekend to mysterious “functions” that you’re never invited to and know nothing about. Call me a skeptic, but I call bullshit.”

“Of course you do.” Thomas puts the puppy down on the bed with a sigh. “Because you don’t trust anybody.”

I can’t believe that Thomas would throw that back in my face. What on earth could Théo be doing to make him so defensive? “Can you blame me? The one person I fully trusted in my life lied to me for months before crushing my heart.”

Thomas cringes, as if my words are causing him actual pain. He reaches out to touch my cheek, but I shy away. He falls down on the bed, and looks up at me with a pained expression. “I’ve never given you a reason not to trust me.”

While this is technically true, it’s also not the point. Friendships are supposed to be about sharing, and I’m so frustrated with feeling like I only know half the story.

“Well you’ve certainly never given me a reason to trust you either. You and Théo are both so fucking secretive. I barely know anything about you, and what I do know other people have told me! I don’t even know how you met, for Christ’s sake. You know everything about me, and I know nothing about you.”

“That’s not fair, Jay. It’s not the same.”

“How is it any different? What, because it’s your lives, not mine? Your pain instead of mine?”

Thomas just sits there for a moment, as if puzzling out what to say. “It just is, Jay.” He pauses again, and then speaks hesitantly, as if he can already predict my reaction. “It’s complicated.”

I take the dog out of his carrier and let him run out of the room, not wanting to frighten him. I already know that there’s no way I’m going over to Théo’s with Thomas. Not now, and maybe not ever again. “Oh, well if it’s _complicated_. Why didn’t you just say so? I would have totally understood.”

“Théo’s secrets are not mine to tell,” Thomas says after a long pause. “And as for my own, I’d rather not get into them with someone who’s going to stand there and make me feel like shit. I won’t reward you for being a pushy asshole.” He gets up slowly and walks to the door. “I’ll give you a couple of days to calm down.” He looks back. “Unless you feel like apologizing.”

I turn away and look out the window at the sea. The waves are high today, crashing against the beach with undue force. I refuse to apologize for something that’s not my fault; perhaps Thomas won’t reward an asshole, but I won’t submit to ultimatums. “I meant what I said.”

Thomas closes the door gently on his way out. 

* * *

 It’s not until he’s gone that I fully understand how completely Thomas has infiltrated my life. I can’t watch something ridiculous on TV without wanting to text him or go for a walk without wanting his company. He’s managed to weasel his way into almost every facet of my daily routine and I miss him more than I thought I would. Whatever compunctions Emma and Théo might have about our relationship, at least I know now that it isn’t about sex. In a weird way, I think the only reason I _can_ get off with Thomas is because our relationship _isn’t_ sexual.

I’m just not really sure how to apologize. I’m still upset about all the secrecy and the lying, and I’m not sure that I’ll be able to stop myself from lashing out again when I do try to talk to him. Part of me wishes that he would just show up at the door and pretend like the whole thing never happened. I could take a page out of Alec’s book and start lying to myself. It’s never seemed like an option before, but I’m definitely starting to see the appeal. I pick up a pebble from the beach and try skipping it, but the waves suck it away quickly.

Westley – named after the same character in The Princess Bride, because of Thomas’s advice of naming your pet after something you like – starts to bark, pulling me from my thoughts. I look up, only to find Théo storming down the beach, his stupid scarf flapping in the wind. I debate making a run for it, as juvenile as that is, but Westley – the treacherous beast – scampers off in his direction, tail wagging furiously.

Théo scoops up the dog without breaking stride, and places him carefully in the sand at my feet before getting up in my face. “What the hell did you do?” he demands without preamble.

I’m so shocked at his vehemence that I answer reflexively. “I didn’t do anything.”

“Bullshit!” In his rage, much like his drunkenness, Théo’s accent is heightened. He sounds almost like a parody of an angry French man, and if I weren’t so pissed I would probably laugh. “He’s moping in his bed like someone’s killed his dog, and he won’t tell me why.”

“And you automatically assume that it’s my fault?”

Théo’s glare is murderous. “He doesn’t have anybody else; there’s just me and you. So I _know_ it was you.”

“Oh, you _know_ it was me, do you? Well maybe you should go back and double-check your facts, before you start storming the beach like a fucking crusader. I didn’t do anything to Thomas except call him on his bullshit. I’m sick of being the only one out of the loop. If Thomas were really upset about this fight, then he’d actually come and talk to me. He’d actually give a little back, instead of refusing to tell me anything about his life.”

Théo kicks at the sand, startling Westley enough that he cowers behind my legs. “You selfish little bastard,” he hisses. “Do you ever think about anyone but yourself? Did you ever stop to think that maybe Tommy doesn’t talk about what happened before he came here because he doesn’t _like_ to think about it?” He barrels on, answering his own question before I have a chance. “Of course you don’t. You’re too busy wallowing in self-pity to realize that you’re not the only one with problems.”

I’m so angry that I could drag Théo out into the ocean and drown him. I’m actually glad he cut me off on the beach, because if he had followed me home, I couldn’t be certain that I wouldn’t have chucked a pot of boiling water in his stupid, smug face. “Oh this is rich. You’re going to call me on selfishness? After what you pulled with Gareth the other night?”

For an instant Théo backs down. His face blanches and he’s quite obviously thrown. “What happened with Gareth was none of your business,” he says stiffly.

“I just think it’s pathetic,” I press, “taking advantage of a kid who clearly admires you just to prove that you can.”

“I don’t need to _prove_ anything.” The wind whips Théo’s scarf in his face and he throws it from his shoulder in rage. Westley bounds after it, clamping it between his teeth. If hope he rips it to shreds. “I don’t need your permission to fuck someone.”

“No,” I say, crossing my arms. “But you could at least show a modicum of fucking decorum. You don’t need to leave the door wide open for anyone to walk in.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Théo bites, “but there is such a thing as spontaneity. Just because you live life like a fucking robot doesn’t mean the rest of us do.”

I’m so frustrated that my whole body feels tense. I am so damn tired of being constantly bullied about my views on sex. Even Thomas, though he means it good-naturedly, never leaves me alone. Emma has always mocked me for being puritanical, and now Théo has started in. “What I’m like in bed is none of your business,” I say, spinning around him and walking toward the house. I don’t trust myself to stay on this beach without losing what’s left of my tenuous control.

“But what I’m like is your business?” He scoffs. “A hypocritical lawyer, what a surprise. I bet you’re absolute _shit_ , that’s why this is pissing you off so much – you can’t stand the thought of someone else getting something that you can’t have.”

I turn around to face Théo, my eyes burning with the pain of holding back tears of frustration. “Maybe you’re right,” I choke out. “Maybe that’s why my fiancé took off with a stripper.”

Théo throws his hands in the air, looking as frustrated as I feel. “You can’t keep throwing that back in my face,” he says. “Yes, it’s horrible because it is and I would never pretend otherwise, but you act as if Alec was your entire life.”

“Because he was!” My voice catches and my throat burns with the effort of shouting. “I spent my four years of undergrad ensuring I had the grades, the volunteer work, and the experience to get into Harvard Law. Then once I got there, it was a constant fucking struggle to stay at the top. You say I’ve never had to deal with real problems, but I bet you’ve never had people steal books out of your locker and cut out the pages just so that they could rise above you in the class standings. The reason you become a cutthroat lawyer is that you don’t have any choice. It’s either fight or fucking perish, okay. I didn’t have time for a personal life, and no – sue me – I didn’t have the personality for casual sex. When I met Alec he became the first person that I had trusted, ever. He was the first _everything_ for me. So don’t chase after me and pretend like you know anything that I’ve been through. Maybe I’m not spontaneous and maybe I am uptight, but don’t you ever tell me that my problems don’t matter. Maybe Thomas has been through hell, and maybe the reason you keep disappearing every couple of weeks is a matter of life or death, but that does not negate what I’ve been through. That’s not the way pain works, asshole.”

Théo just stands there, dumbstruck. His face twists, his rage dissolving into pity. And well that, that is the last thing I want from him. “Don’t you dare,” I snarl, gathering Westley up in my arms, Théo’s stupid scarf still trapped in his teeth. “I don’t want your pity and I don’t want your apologies. Just leave me the hell alone.”

I don’t turn around until I’m safely inside with the door locked. When I finally glance out the window I see that Théo is in the same position he was when I left, staring at the house with his hands in his pockets, not even bothering to move as the spray rises steadily higher.

I’ve just settled the dog into his kennel for a nap when the phone rings. It’s in the next room and I ignore it, sure that it’s either Théo or Thomas, neither of whom I want to speak with right now. It goes to voicemail and I start getting ingredients out of the fridge for homemade Reese’s peanut butter cups; if I’m going to be miserable, then I may as well be stuffing my face while I’m doing it. The phone rings another two times while I’m making the cookies, prompting me to start swearing on an actual _appliance_ and thus question my entire worldview.

I’m halfway through the dishes when it rings for the fourth time. I’m starting to crumble a little; if Thomas is this upset, then maybe I should pick up. It’s only when it doesn’t stop ringing that I think that something might be up. Whoever is on the other line lets it ring and ring and ring until voicemail eventually kicks in. A little panicked that something might be wrong with Emma and the baby, I hastily wipe my hands and sprint to the next room, swiping the phone from the table with shaking hands. When it starts ringing again I nearly drop it on the floor.

It’s Alec.

I hesitate, but I know I can’t ignore the call. He would never be this persistent over something trivial. A cold sense of foreboding spreads out in my chest, and I pray that nothing has happened to Isabelle, Jace, or Maryse. I’ve long given up hope that Alec will call to tell me he wants a second chance, so I know that something must be terribly wrong.

“Hello?” I can hear Alec’s quick breath of relief that I’ve finally picked up.

“Jay.” It’s like his voice is a faucet and hearing it turns on a flood of memories over which I have no control. I know why Emma told me that we would never be able to be friends; there’s a breaking point for love, and once you surpass that, you’ll never be able to go back to the person you were before. Alec could never be anything less than what he was to me – my heart would never be able to accept it.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Kipling.” Alec makes a small, pained noise in the back of his throat, and the urge to reach out and comfort him is almost painful. My own horror at hearing the news is subsidiary – I just want to make sure that Alec is all right.

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” I start, but he cuts me off.

“No, he’s really sick.” I hear a sniffle and my heart aches. “He needs to be put down, Jay, the vet told me today.”

“Alec, I’m so sorry.”

“Will you come say goodbye?” When I don’t answer Alec sniffles again and I’m sure that if he asked me to take Magnus and give him a surf lesson I would happily agree. “It’s just that he’s never really gotten over you leaving. He looked for you weeks when I came home, and I think it would really make him happy before – you know.” His voice starts to shake and I can hear someone whispering quietly in the background. It’s Magnus, I’m sure of it. He’s the one who gets to comfort Alec now. My stomach twists and I walk toward the bathroom, just in case.

“Of course I’ll come, Alec. I’m driving to the airport right now.”

“You could take the Lightwood jet,” Alec says.

“That won’t be necessary.” I’ve only been on the Lightwood jet a couple of times, but that was enough to create a couple of memories I certainly don’t want to relive. “There are flights going out all the time. I’ll be there in the morning.”

“Thanks, Jay.”

“Anytime,” I breathe. And then, after he’s hung up, “I love you.”

Time is of the essence, so I throw together a quick overnight bag and put Westley in his carrier. I stow my bag in my car on my way to Thomas’s house. When I get there I don’t bother knocking, and instead barge right in. Thomas and Théo are sitting at the table, eating together and locked in what appears to be heavy conversation.

Théo is facing me, and his eyes widen comically when he sees me burst through the door. “Jay,” he says, his fork dropping to his plate with a clatter. Thomas spins around so fast that he almost falls off his chair, and jumps up to greet me.

“I don’t have a lot of time,” I say, shoving the carrier into his hands. “Please, will you take care of Westley for a few days for me?”

Thomas puts the carrier down on his chair and grabs my arms, holding them tightly. “Jay, what the hell is wrong? You look like you’re having some kind of breakdown.”

“It’s Alec,” I say. “He called and I need to go to New York.”

Thomas moves his hands from my arms to my face, holding it steady. “Breathe, Princess. Now tell me why you need to go to New York.”

“It’s my dog, Kipling,” I say. A wave of sadness settles over me as I speak the words I’ve been try to push away from my mind since Alec called. “He’s being put down tomorrow and I have to go say goodbye.”

“Oh, Jay.” Thomas pulls me in for a hug, squeezing me tightly enough to cut off my air supply. I look up and see Théo rising from his chair. He pours up a glass of water and brings it over, handing it to me without a word.

“We’ll drive you to the airport,” he says as soon as my mouth is full and I can’t argue. “It’ll be quicker that way.”

“You don’t have – ”

“We want to,” Thomas insists, leaning over to brush his lips against my temple. “That’s what friend do, Jay.”

I take the last gulp of my water and nod my thanks. I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get words out without losing it, and Thomas and Théo seem to understand.

“I’ll drive,” Théo says, grabbing my keys and sliding into his sandals. “If I can make it from Beaumont Hamel to Arras in twenty-one minutes during harvest season, I can get you to LAX in time to make a flight.”

Not understanding a word of what that means, but willing to take the favor anyway, I wait for Thomas to settle Westley into a room where he can’t get into trouble, and then pile in the car to begin the long trip to New York. 

* * *

 Even with the overnight flight, mad dash to my mother’s apartment to get cleaned up and changed, and breakfast consisting only of half a muffin my mother’s doorman gives me because he think I look pathetic, I still only make it to the vet’s office with ten minutes to spare. Thankfully Alec hasn’t arrived yet, so I have time to compose myself before I have to see him again. I pace around the parking lot, cursing myself for not bringing a warmer coat. January in Los Angeles can make a person forget about the biting wind and wet snow, but thirty seconds back on the east coast is all it takes to bring all those memories crashing down.

I’ve just started dancing on the spot when I see Alec’s familiar truck pull in. Back when we first started dating, that truck was one of the reasons I fell in love with him; like Alec, it’s entirely unpretentious and unexpected. I certainly couldn’t believe that a Lightwood was driving one. It seemed impossible that the same family my mother mooned over and counted on for benefits and party fundraisers could have spawned the kind of guy who would drive around in a truck like that.

As he parks the truck and shuts off the engine, I start to shake. I feel acutely nauseated, and for the first time in my life, entirely unprepared. I’m thankful that I don’t have my own car, because when I see Magnus step out of Alec’s truck and walk to the driver’s side to meet him, I’m sure that I would drive away and never look back. Over time I’ve tried to convince myself that there’s nothing special about Magnus Bane – that he’s stupid and inconsiderate and unattractive when he’s not fully made up and cast under flattering lighting. But here, looking at him in his understated black jeans and form-fitting winter jacket, I know at least one of those is completely false. As I see him whisper something quietly in Alec’s ear, squeezing gently on his shoulder, I get the sneaking suspicion that none of them are true.

Steeling myself for the inevitable blow of first contact, I make my way toward Alec’s truck, holding my head high and schooling my features into the impartial expression I use in court. Magnus shifts a little closer to Alec’s side as I approach, and they thread their fingers seamlessly. I pretend not to notice, and push away the sharp stab of pain that accompanies.

“Thank you for coming,” Alec says as soon as we’re close enough to talk. “I’m really happy you did.”

“Well,” I say briskly, wanting to keep this as no-nonsense as possible. “He’s my dog too.”

Magnus moves forward almost imperceptibly, but Alec brushes his hand up his sleeve and he settles back. I almost wish he _would_ do something. My nerves are frayed, and Magnus looks about as sturdy as a house of cards. It wouldn’t be good manners to hit your ex-fiancé’s new boyfriend outside a veterinary clinic, but sometimes we have to make due with what life gives us.

“Someone came to pick Kipling up earlier today,” Alec continues, his voice a little too fast and a little too high. “He can’t really walk, so it would have been too hard to try to move him ourselves.”

I just nod and Alec’s voice trails off. We enter the building together, and Alec takes the lead, directing us to the back room that’s used as an area for families to say goodbye. To my disappointment, but not really surprise, Magnus also follows him back. Swallowing my irritation, I stand off to the side as the three of us approach the final door. Magnus, unfortunately, is much more astute than I have previously given him credit for.

“I hope it doesn’t bother you, James,” he said quietly.

I know he’s only trying to be polite, but my emotions are already on overdrive, and the last fucking thing I wanted today was for Magnus Bane to try to strike up a conversation. “You hope it doesn’t bother me? No, _Magnus_ , by all means. You already stole my fiancé, so by all means, take my dog too.”

“Jay!” Alec sounds horrified, but Magnus just bristles, his green eyes flashing.

“You can’t _steal_ a person,” he says lowly, obviously not wanting to cause a commotion.

“Magnus, please.” Alec slips his hand into Magnus’s again and then turns to me. “Jay, don’t be upset. Magnus just wants to say goodbye; he loves Kipling too.”

“Of course he does,” I snap back viciously, “Kipling belonged to somebody else first.”

Magnus moves forward, ready to say something back, but Alec gives him a strong tug and steps between us, looking livid. “Look,” he says, “this is a horrible situation and most of it is my fault, but if you two don’t shut the fuck up and get along for thirty seconds, then neither of you are coming in.”

Even if I had wanted to argue, the sight of Alec losing his temper like that would have rendered me incapable. He really has changed since we broke up; I don’t know if that makes it hurt more or less.

“Magnus, you come in with me first,” Alec says firmly, as if daring either of us to argue. “You can say goodbye and then send Jay in.”

The two of them disappear into the room together and I quietly try to resist the urge to punch a wall. The minutes tick by, and eventually Magnus exits the room with a red nose and blurry eyes. He breezes right past me without a second glance, and I open the door to step in.

When I approach the table, Kipling whines and shoves his giant muzzle into my hands. It’s hard to reconcile this frail creature with the proud, strong dog I knew, and I feel the first tears starting to pool.

“He missed you so much,” Alec says, having given up his own battle with tears.

Kipling licks my hand, whining softly until I lean down to press my cheek to his fur. I run my hand down his back, cringing when I feel his ribs so near the surface. Alec places his hand on top of mine and leans down as well. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers into Kipling’s fur, and I’m not entirely sure which one of us he’s talking to.

“It’s okay,” I answer, knowing that it’s probably both. “I’m here now.”

Kipling whines again and my tears start to flow in earnest, staining his grey fur black. “Goodbye, buddy,” I choke, wrapping my arms around his neck for one last hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”

“I need a few more minutes with him,” Alec says, wiping his eyes with the back of his sleeve. “Do you think you’ll still be out there when I’m done?”

“I doubt it.”

Alec takes a step toward me. “Jay, I – ”

I move back, unsure of what I’ll do if Alec actually touches me. “Don’t. Alec, I’m sorry but I don’t want to hear it, whatever it is.” I turn to walk toward the door. Just before I leave, I look back to find Alec doubled over into Kipling’s side, and I can’t stop the rush of emotion that overtakes me. “Alec, you’re going be okay, right?”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

“He’ll take care of you?”

“Yeah, he will.”

“Goodbye, Alec.” The tears are still flowing freely, and I don’t do anything to stop them.

“Bye Jay,” he says softly. “Take care of yourself.”

I manage to make it past Magnus Bane without losing it. I save that for the parking lot, where I hunker down behind a parked car and let go of everything I’ve been holding in for the past sixteen hours. When I’ve exhausted what energy I had left I call a cab and get him to bring me directly to the airport. I’ll get my mother to send me my things, because I can’t spend another second in New York City. 

* * *

 I spend the flight in a haze of grief, fatigue, and whiskey. It’s still pitch black when the cab drops me at home, and it takes several tries to get the key in the door and get inside. I’m still wearing a winter jacket and two sweaters, and I can barely breathe for the heat.

I strip off layers as I walk, discarding clothes along the kitchen floor. Once I’m down to my boxers I grab a bottle of whisky from its place above the stove and pour up a couple of shots. Just as I’m tipping the second one back I hear footsteps creeping across the kitchen and turn to find Théo standing at my island.

“You left the door unlocked,” he says, looking directly at my face. “I thought you might need some company.”

“Its…five thirty-three,” I slur, tipping back another shot. “Why the hell are you awake?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he says. “I saw the cab, and well.” He gestures at himself and then lets his arms fall to his sides.

“I don’t think I’ll be very good company,” I say truthfully, ignoring the burn of the fourth shot. “I’ve had a trying couple of days.”

Théo steps forward and grabs the bottle from my hand, pushing gently against my chest when I make a swipe for it. “I think you’ve had enough, Jay.”

I place my hand over his, pinning it to my chest. His hands are so smooth; not at all like someone who grew up on a farm. They’re also much smaller than mine. “I wasn’t finished.”

Théo gently pries his hand away and puts the bottle on the counter. “I think you should try to get some sleep,” he says gently, herding me down the hallway.

I walk toward my room, nearly tripping on a dip in the floor along the way. Théo’s arms shoot out to help me, but I don’t actually fall. I turn sharply into my room, and he follows closely behind, his hand twitching reflexively toward his pocket.

“I hired Magnus Bane, you know,” I say when I’ve settled into on top of the blankets. For some reason I feel like this is very important information.

“What?”

“The stripper. The one that Alec left me for. I hired him for Alec’s twenty-fifth birthday.”

“I’m sorry.” He really does look sorry, perched awkwardly on the side of my bed.

“Don’t be. I suppose it would have happened anyway. Apparently I didn’t make him very happy. He seems better off without me.”

“He didn’t deserve you,” Théo says fiercely, moving a little closer.

“That’s not true at all.” I think of how sad Alec was yesterday, how broken he sounded when saying goodbye. “He was so good.” My voice falters and I can’t remember what I was going to say, so I just press my face into my pillow, mumbling bits of utter nonsense under my breath.

“You’re always taking care of things,” Théo murmurs quietly, and I’m fairly sure that he doesn’t intend for me to hear him. “But who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need to be taken care of,” I spit into the pillow. I’ve been taking care of myself for as long as I can remember, so I don’t really know what Théo is talking about. I can’t really give it proper thought though; my head is starting to feel hazy, and it’s getting harder to keep my eyes open.

“Oh, Jay,” Théo says, and his voice sounds very far away. “Everyone needs to be taken care of sometimes.” I feel the soft fabric of my blanket being pulled up to my shoulders and I shiver, snuggling into the warmth. I hear Théo’s footsteps as he walks over to the door, but by the time he leaves I’m already asleep.


	5. Chapter Five

When I wake up there’s a glass of water and two Advil sitting on the table next to the bed. First I panic, wondering if I managed to pick someone up between the airport and home and what manner of sexually transmitted infections they could have passed on in our drunken coupling. As I’m scouring the floor for a used condom, pieces of the morning slowly click into place, and I vaguely remember Théo guiding me to bed. I have no idea how he got in. My stomach swoops sickeningly – what if I asked him to come? I pull out my phone and scan carefully through the calls, but I don’t see any from this morning. I don’t know how pathetic I must have been to warrant getting this treatment, but I can only assume that it was a truly stunning display.

I roll over to grab the water and find that my head is actually not that bad. Go figure. I drink a couple glasses of wine and have to sit through the plane ride from hell, but I down nearly a flask of whiskey and everything is sunshine and daisies.

I just wish I could remember what happened with Théo.

Once I’ve showered, cooked and eaten a pound of bacon, and cleaned the kitchen, I figure it’s time to man up and face Thomas and Théo. Westley has probably peed all over their apartment, and they shouldn’t have to be subjected to that – especially after how nice they were after Alec called. Thomas could have easily refused to talk to me – like he said he was going to – and I’ve long since given up on trying to figure out what mood Théo’s going to be in when we talk. I’m surprised he didn’t try to push me out over the balcony last night while I was drunk and vulnerable. He probably could have made it look like an accident.

Thomas’s face lights up when he opens the door to find me on the other side.

“Jay,” he says, pulling me into a long hug. “How are you? How was the visit?”

“Is it okay if we talk about it later?”

Thomas, obviously upset with himself for even asking, just pulls me into another hug. “Of course we can. We don’t have to talk about it at all if you don’t want to.”

And doesn’t that feel like a punch in the gut. After everything I said to him about secrets and sharing, and he just accepts my silence easily. Not one to ignore my mistakes, I try to apologize, but I’m immediately shut down.

“You can’t just change the way you are overnight,” Thomas says, ushering me over to a chair. “Twenty-nine years of being a control freak is not just going to go away because you’re sorry.” I mean to object to being called a control freak, but he starts rubbing my shoulders, kneading at the knots that have formed over the course of the cross-country trip from hell, and the ability to talk just kind of flies out the window.

“How’s Westley?” I ask instead, a little worried that he’s not out here nipping at my heels.

“I wouldn’t really know,” Thomas answers, laughing as I groan in pleasure. “He hasn’t really left Théo’s side.” He hauls out his phone and shows me a picture of the two of them curled up on Théo’s bed. “See?”

“That’s,” – _adorable_ , my mind supplies – “a good way to end up with a bed full of pee.”

“I don’t think he’d mind.” Thomas slips the phone back in his pocket and gets back to rubbing my shoulders. “He’s kind of attached.”

We lapse into a companionable silence. That’s the true measure of a friend, I think – being able to spend time doing nothing and still be perfectly comfortable. Thomas hums some song I don’t know under his breath, and I start to nod off.

I’m just slipping into the beginning of a dream when Thomas speaks. “I think we should go out tonight.”

My head snaps back, though I’m not sure if it’s from surprise or fright. “You think we should go out tonight? Like _out_ out?”

Thomas takes the seat next to me and grins. “I can really see why you’re such a big-shot in court – you’ve got a way with words.”

“Fuck you.”

“As always, I’m just waiting on you, Princess.”

My heart squeezes at the stupid nickname, though I do my best to scowl. Thomas really seems like he’s over the fight. I have no illusions about my own capacity to forgive and forget; I probably wouldn’t have come back if Alec hadn’t called. It’s really the only good thing to come out of that entire situation.

“That’s not what I meant to ask, _asshole_ ,” I say, pinning Thomas’s wrists to the table and leaning in, but staying just too far away for him to kiss me. I raise an eyebrow, smirking a little at the way he shifts in his chair. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

There’s a small crash behind us, and I turn to find Théo standing by the wall with Westley in his arms and a bowl of puppy chow overturned at his feet. “ _Merde_ ,” he mutters under his breath, bending down to try to pick up the food without upsetting the puppy.

I scramble over to try to help, ignoring his angry muttering and protests. Once the food is picked up and the puppy resituated so that he can continue his mid-afternoon nap in Théo’s arms, Théo reaches out and touches my hand. “Are you okay?” There's genuine concern on his face - a small furrow over the bridge of his nose, just above his glasses - and I more than ever I want to ask what happened last night. 

“Much better,” I say. And then, after a second, “thanks.”

Théo has no choice but to sit at the table with us, but it’s easy to tell that he’d rather be anywhere else. I try to ignore his discomfort and tell myself that the sooner he gets over whatever I did or said last night, the better.

“So?” I ask Thomas, launching back into our prior conversation. “Am I the one who should be having a panic attack now? Have you – how did you put this a few months ago – _gone and fallen in love with me_?”

“Not bloody likely,” Thomas teases. “You’re not that gorgeous.” He moves closer and runs a hand up my bicep. “Well, maybe you are. But just imagine how many lives would be ruined. How many hearts would be shattered.” He sighs, bringing his knees up to support his chin. “I just can’t have that on my conscience.”

Though I know that laughing does nothing more than feed his ego, it’s impossible not to. “It could be an elaborate ruse to finally get me to put out.”

Westley barks loudly and Théo flushes when we turn our heads, as if it’s his fault the dog is awake.

“You do think highly of yourself, don’t you?” Thomas leans back, stretching so that his t-shirt rides up over his flat abdomen. “If I were truly trying to seduce you,” he says, “I have better moves than burgers and beer.”

“Burgers and beer? Woah, you spoil me.”

Thomas grins and leans over to nip at my bottom lip. “Didn’t I tell you, Princess? You’re paying.” 

* * *

 Théo opts to stay home – ostensibly to look after Westley, but probably because he’s still embarrassed about whatever happened between us last night. I think about asking Thomas, but if the strange looks he’s been throwing at him all morning mean anything I don’t think he knows.

The burger joint he brings me to is actually pretty nice. It’s got secluded booths, dim lighting, and a fantastic drink menu. He seems to know everyone who works at the bar, so I can only assume that I’m not the first guy he’s brought here. Also, any lasting reservations I had that this may be a date are shattered when he saunters up to the bar and manages to come back with three drinks from three different guys. He shoves one – a light blue concoction – across the table. “Compliments of the guy in the pink t-shirt.”

I glance over and the guy winks at me. He’s pretty cute, in a surfer-boy sort of way, with narrow hips and floppy blonde hair, but I’m not really interested.

“You’re sure the drink was supposed to be for me?”

“Uh, yeah.” Thomas leans over and runs his hands through my hair. “Do you have any idea how absolutely mind-bogglingly attractive you are? I mean, I can never be sure if I want to fuck you or just pinch you to make sure you’re real.”

Ignoring Thomas – because though I’ve never had any complaints about the way that I look, his personal brand of hyperbole deserves nothing more – I slowly move my glass across the table. Then, before I can convince myself that it’s a stupid idea, I ask the question that’s been on my mind ever since I returned from New York.

“Thomas, Do you think I’m sexy?” 

Thomas scoffs loudly enough to draw the attention of the table closest to us. “Sexy?" He leans a bit closer, trying - completely for my benefit, I'm sure - to keep him answer between the two of us. "Jay, I would pay to lick ice cream off your abs, and I’m lactose intolerant.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I fiddle with the salt and pepper shakers, sprinkling out small piles and then sweeping them onto the floor. “I mean, do I have sex appeal? Like, if I winked at you would you immediately think of all the dirty things I could do?”

Thomas bursts out laughing, which says more than any answer he has to give, really. “Jay, if you winked at me I’d assume you were possessed by body-snatchers. Wait wait, hey now.” He reaches out and rubs my hand. “I think so many dirty things about you,” he says encouragingly. Filthy, really. I’d be locked up if you could only read my mind.”

“Forget about it.” I flick the shakers across the table. It’s not like I didn’t know the answer. Once, after Alec and I had been dating for a few months, I tried to give him a sexy striptease. My foot had caught in my laptop’s cord without me realizing, and when I lifted my leg I dragged the entire contents of my desk onto the floor. In every other aspect of my life I know exactly what to do and exactly what to say, but somehow I ended up with the sex appeal of a hippopotamus.

“Magnus Bane is sexy,” I say morosely, resting my chin against my folded hands. “He moves like he was put on this Earth to drive you wild. One wink from him and you know that he would be the fuck of your life.”

“Really?” Thomas leans forward with an exaggerated leer. “Where do I sign up?”

“That’s not funny, Thomas.”

“I know, I know, poor taste. But honestly Jay, fuck Magnus Bane. And fuck that ponce of an ex-fiancé too. He didn’t deserve you.”

The words spark a strange sense of déjà vu; Emma must have said them to me before. I pick up the blue drink and take a sip – it’s not that bad, actually. “You’re obligated to say that. Plus, you don’t even know him.”

“I know enough to make that call. I know you, and I know that anyone who could treat you poorly isn’t worth your time.”

Though I appreciate the sentiment, I know that Thomas and Emma don’t really understand. They don’t know Alec, not like I did. It’s easy to say that he didn’t deserve me when they’ve never seen him at his most vulnerable, when they’ve never felt what it’s like to have him _need_ you. I take another sip of the blue drink and raise an eyebrow. “So is this why you brought me here, for a pep talk? To force me to drown my sorrows in beef and electric lemonade instead of whiskey?”

“Actually, no.” Thomas fiddles with the rim of his glass, running his finger along the edge until it starts to hum. “I’ve been thinking about our little tiff and decided that you were right.”

Honestly, I'm almost forgotten about the fight in the wake of everything else that's happened. After everything he's done for me, this is the last thing that Thomas owes me. “You don’t have to do that just because I’m upset right now," I say, the guilt prompting another gulp from my lemonade. "I was just being an asshole.”

Thomas grins. “You’re right, you were being an asshole. But I was kind of being an asshole too. I wasn’t giving you enough credit.” He sighs and resumes playing with his glass. The waitress walks by, depositing a basket of tortilla chips in the center of our table, and Thomas winks at her as she walks away. He picks up a chip and cracks it in half, then into quarters before popping each piece into his mouth individually.

He’s _nervous_ , which is something I’m not expecting, and it makes me feel even worse. “Seriously Thomas, if you don’t want to tell me, it’s fine. We’re still friends, you know.”

“I know, it’s just,” he laughs while exhaling, and the sound is high-pitched and wheezy, like a cartoon villain. “It’s just bloody difficult, all right? I’ve done some things that I’m not proud of, and you’re just so, so – ”

“Uptight?” I supply. “Square. Boring?”

“So _good_ ,” Thomas finishes. “Like, I bet you never had a drink until you turned twenty-one. Probably never smoked a joint or even driven without a seatbelt.”

“I’m a lawyer, Thomas. We don’t exactly have a rep for being angels.”

“Yes, but you didn’t exactly _deny_ any of that.”

It’s true. I’ve always had a pathologic need to obey the rules, which Emma insists is part of the Obsessive Compulsive Personality Disorder. She’d always made it sound like a flaw – like something she’d be able to cure me of – but somehow Thomas makes it seem like a compliment.

“I guess there’s no way to do this but to come right out with it.” He finishes off his first drink and slams the glass down with a little too much force. “When I first met Théo I was a thief.”

“A thief?” That is not what I was expecting. For one thing, if someone told me that Thomas was involved in illegal activities, _thief_ wouldn’t be the first one to come to mind. “Like, car thief?”

“Not exactly.” The waitress arrives again, this time with our food. “Thanks, sweetheart,” Thomas says, digging into his burger. “This is delicious.”

She flushes and then hands me my veggie burger without breaking eye contact with Thomas. I’m surprised my fries don’t end up in my lap.

When she heads back to the kitchen, Thomas turns to me, brandishing a fry. “You see what happened there?”

“Uh, yeah. That waitress almost tipped my food in my lap in an effort to flirt with someone who is quite obviously gay.”

“Precisely. Now, why would a young girl ignore a hot piece of ass such as yourself?”

“Thomas this is stupid.”

“I’m serious, Jay. You’re at least twice as hot as me, and that’s taking the sexy accent into account. But she still wanted everything to do with me and nothing to do with you.”

“Yeah, because you flirted with her. You flirt with everybody.”

Thomas bites his fry. “Partially. But guys flirt with her all the time. She’s a waitress; she probably hates guys flinging themselves at her.”

“Thomas, you’re gay.”

“Really?” Thomas sucks on a fry lewdly. “Thanks for letting me know. And for making my second point: she either didn’t know – which is unlikely, as she’s seen me here with at least twenty different guys – or she didn’t care.”

“So, what, you’re trying to say your flirting prowess is how you became a thief?”

“The key to stealing something,” Thomas says, squeezing ketchup onto his plate, “is making someone trust you. People are desperate to share their secrets – they just need someone they think wants to listen.”

“So what happened? Théo was like your backer or something?”

Thomas laughs and almost chokes on a fry. “Théo? You do know he grew up on a farm, right? His moral code is almost as strict as yours. No, Théo wasn’t my backer, Théo was a _mark_.”

I snort around a mouthful of French fries. “A mark? This is starting to sound a little too much like a bad spy movie.”

“It’s really not that uncommon,” Thomas says with a shrug. “I was young, stupid, broke, and had nowhere to go. My mum kicked me out once I started skipping school and I was always pretty persuasive. Got in with the wrong crowd, owed some dangerous people favors, and it all escalated from there.”

“So what did Théo have that you wanted? A painting or something? A rare book?”

“No, actually.” Thomas grins again, taking a sip of water. “He had a bottle of wine.”

“A bottle of wine? You tried to con Théo for a bottle of wine?”

“A twenty thousand dollar bottle of wine, to be precise. From his Grandmother’s vineyard – Chateau d’Yquem.”

My heart stutters in my chest as I think of Théo uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring it in two glasses. Was that a _twenty thousand dollar_ bottle of wine? And if it was, why the hell did he share it with me – because I went to Thomas’s rescue when he couldn’t? I push the thoughts away for another time. “So what happened?”

“I got caught.” Thomas smiles as if remembering a fond memory rather than a potential disaster. “I tried for a solid week to get Théo to take me home,” he says, “but the bastard just wanted nothing to do with me. I was desperate, so I finally followed him home and snuck in. When he caught me he said that he’d suspected all along – that someone like me would never be interested in someone like him.” Thomas takes a bite of his burger and chews thoughtfully. “Much like yourself, he’s never known his own worth.”

My own burger lies on my plate untouched, so I pick it up and take a bite. Thomas was right – it is delicious. “Obviously he didn’t turn you in?”

“On the contrary, he offered me a cup of tea. And being the sentimental fool I am, I burst into tears. He let me stay for the night, and then wrote me a check to send to my employers. I have no idea how much it was for, but it did the trick. Nobody bothered me after that.”

“And Théo gained a permanent roommate?”

“Personal body slave, more like.” Thomas huffs. “He hasn’t done a load of laundry since.”

“Seems like a fair price to pay.” I don’t say anything further; Théo’s reasons for helping Thomas, whether they were romantic, philanthropic, or just plain inexplicable, are his to share. For once in my life I hold my tongue and just pick up my burger.

Thomas smiles and waves the waitress back over for another drink. “Indeed it does.” 

* * *

 When we get home Théo is out on the beach, playing with Westley. In the time that I’ve been gone, it looks like the puppy has actually learned to fetch. His fur is wet and clumped with sand from rolling around and there’s a bit of seaweed stuck to his head.

“Looks like you guys have been having a good time,” I say as I make my way closer.

“He’s fantastic,” Théo takes a stick from Westley’s mouth and throws it into the sea, smiling as the pup bounds in after it happily. “Did you like the burgers?”

“Yeah, the food was awesome.” I’m not really sure what else to say, and an awkward silence threatens to end our exchange.

“I was thinking,” Théo says, bending down to take the stick from Westley once again. “That I could help you with your surfing.” He looks up, bottom lip caught between his teeth. “I mean, if you still wanted?”

“I, sure.” I look down at Théo, his face reddened by the sun, and feel suddenly self-conscious. “I mean, as long as you’re not doing it because you feel sorry for me about the whole Alec thing.”

Théo tenses slightly, but the fires the stick toward the water and stands up. “I’m sorry I was a bit of an asshole before.” He brushes his hand along his pocket, but he doesn’t take anything out.

“It’s okay.” When Westley returns this time I scoop him up in my arms. He yelps, gnawing on my chin a little before settling into the crook of my elbow. “Thanks for taking care of Wes for me.”

Théo reaches out to clean the sand from Westley’s paws and his pinky brushes against my arm. The touch is an unexpected shock, and head spreads up my arm, prompting a small intake of breath. Théo, thankfully, is too caught up in Westley to notice.

I exhale slowly. “So, today then?”

Théo looks up, surprised – a little too surprised for my taste. “Today?”

“Yeah?” I pause, forcing myself answer calmly. “I have some French fries to work off. I just have to run up and put Wes in his kennel and get my stuff, if that works for you?”

“Sure.” I realize, with no small amount of panic, that Théo’s rolling r is actually kind of cute, now that he doesn’t look like he wants to see me gutted and hung. As is the small, hopeful smile he gives along with his answer. I turn and start to walk away before something truly idiotic leaves my mouth.

“I’ll meet you back here in half an hour,” I call out, willing the roiling mess in my stomach to settle with every step I take toward home. “Don’t be late!” 

* * *

 Surfing with Théo becomes a regular thing. He starts spending a lot less time on the beach with a book, and a lot more time in the water. Strangely, the inverse can be said for Thomas. It seems like the more time I spend with Théo, the more excuses Thomas has to go out. He still comes over, to watch me grade papers and to help me unwind after particularly stressful days at work, but around Théo he gets strangely fidgety. When I ask him about it he just tells me I’m being an idiot, so eventually I stop asking.

Théo, it turns out, is a fantastic teacher. Months ago this realization would have rankled – especially since teaching seems to be one thing that I just can’t manage to master. But I’d have to been an idiot not to realize how talented he is: he’s patient and instructive without being condescending and he’s able to communicate what he wants in a concise, well-organized manner. Thomas had done his best to get me acquainted with the surfing, but under Théo’s tutelage I start to really _learn_.

“I suppose I get a lot of practice,” he says, flushing slightly, after I tell him as much.

That’s another thing: he’s horrible at taking compliments. After a few weeks I begin to wonder how I ever took him for surly and sour, when he’s really just shy and introverted. Sure, he’s quick to argue – he doesn’t have Thomas’s easygoing nature – but I hardly have room to judge on that front. He’s even stopped smoking around me – a fact I’ve been meaning to bring up.

I paddle out toward him, watching with envy as he shows off a little with perfect form. It's just the two of us today - Thomas has a shift, and the session has been particularly brutal. My day at work was draining, and the waves are kicking my ass. “Wanna head back in?” 

Théo, in a rare display of affability, just shrugs. “Sure.”

We paddle in silence, and I’m glad that it’s no longer awkward. Even if he never feels as close to me as he does with Thomas, I think we’ve become good friends over the past few months.

“Jay?” Théo reaches out to grab my arm as we’re nearing shore.

“Hm?”

He reaches up and runs his fingers quickly through my hair. The curls are messy now, and often hang down in my face as I’m trying to grade papers. Thomas is delighted with them, but I’ve gotten the feeling that Théo doesn’t really like them that much. “There’s seaweed in your hair.”

He smiles and holds out his hand, showing me the little brown piece of kelp, but I’m so taken aback that he would reach out and touch me so casually that I end up with a mouthful of seawater.

Théo laughs while I splutter, and is still chuckling as we walk up the beach. He rifles through his things for a towel, throwing his lighter back in his bag as soon as it falls out.

“You don’t have to avoid it because of me, you know.” I run my own towel through my curls, knowing full well I’m going to look like carrot top once they dry.

“Avoid what?” he asks, his back turned to me. He never surfs without a shirt on, and is clearly self-conscious about changing. I think back on Thomas’s words about him not knowing his worth, and realize, for the hundredth time, how very wrong about Théo I was.

“Smoking,” I answer when he’s facing me again. “I know I was a dick about it before, but I’m not asthmatic or anything.”

“Actually,” Théo says, suddenly preoccupied with a book that’s sticking out of the corner of his bag. “I quit.”

“You quit?”

“It was getting really tiresome,” he says, still fiddling through his bag. “You’re not allowed to smoke on university grounds anymore, so I was using up my entire lunch breaks just to find somewhere to have a cigarette.”

I debate telling him about the secret nook that everyone from the Law department uses because campus enforcement so rarely walks by, but then decide against it. You’re supposed to care about your friends’ health, right? Telling him would only be a setback. “That’s awesome,” I say, flopping down in the sand and pulling out a book I’m using to plan one of my later lectures.

To my surprise, Théo reaches over and snaps it shut. “No work,” he says. “It’s time to have fun.” He makes a face as I open my mouth to protest. “You do know what fun is, right?”

“Shut up.” I throw the book to the side and lean back, tugging my wetsuit down and letting the sun warm my chilly skin. “You sound just like –”

“Tommy?” Théo says, lying down beside me. He’s wearing a fluffy UCLA sweater that I’ve only ever seen on Thomas and looks so unlike his usual self that it’s comical.

“Alec,” I finish quietly. It’s the first time I’ve thought of him in a while – a phenomenon that elates me and terrifies me in equal measure.

Théo immediately shuts down. He _hates_ talking about Alec. I’m not sure why, but I think it’s equal parts Thomas and the elusive Riley. I still have no idea what happened between Théo and his ex-boyfriend, but I do know that it was enough to turn him from dating for a while, since he hasn’t had a steady boyfriend in over two years.

Théo sits up swiftly, and I follow suit, bracing myself for an argument. To my surprise, Théo doesn’t even raise his voice. In fact, his voice is uncharacteristically subdued. “Was he really that special?”

I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to answer, so I decide that the truth is what works best. “Yeah, he was.” I look down at the sand, tracing the outline of a rock. “I know that’s pathetic to say, especially after he cheated on me, but I can’t help it. I wish I could just _make_ myself not care, but it’s always been hard for me to let go of things.”

“Attractive?”

“He actually looks a lot like Thomas - just with a little extra muscle.” Théo’s eyes flash and I scramble to explain. “Thomas knows – I told him the first night we… I told him the first night, okay?” I reach in my bag and pull out my wallet. Then, from its place behind my UCLA id card, I pull out a picture of Alec – it’s from when we first moved to Vegas, and did a fair amount of hiking. We used to spend entire weekends exploring back then – one of many things that had changed by the end, and which I’d failed to recognize as a bad sign. “See?”

Théo looks at the picture and then plucks it from my hand and rips it in half.

“What the fuck, Théo!”

“That’s unhealthy,” he says flatly. “Carrying around a picture of the guy who dumped you almost a year ago? You’re never going to get over it if you keep around shit like this.”

“That’s not your decision to make.” I gather up my stuff and storm toward the house, wishing I could erase all the positive thoughts I’d been having about Théo.

Not one to back down, he quickly follows me up from the beach. “How much more of this crap do you have in there?” he asks once he’s caught up.

“None,” I lie, pushing the key into the lock with shaking fingers. “Not that it’s any of your business if I do.”

“It is my business,” Théo argues, resting his hand on the door. “I’m your friend, Jay. And friends don’t let friends make creepy shrines to their ex-boyfriends.”

“Ex-fiancé,” I correct - not that the distinction really makes things any different.

“Whatever!” Théo pushes past me and walks straight into the kitchen. Westley bounds up to him, greeting him with playful nips at the ankles. He turns to me, suddenly serious. “Tell me you want to stay like this,” he says. “Tell me that you’re happy pining over some asshole who treated you like shit, and I’ll leave.”

“Alec didn’t treat me like shit,” I say softly. And he _didn’t_ – at least, not until the very end.

“That’s not a _yes, I want to live like this, Théo_ ,” he says. “So let’s get to it.”

After an hour we’ve managed to purge most of Alec from my house. There are pictures, a couple of DVDs, and a bag full of birthday and anniversary cards, all of which Théo promises to personally bring to the nearest garbage dump. Once everything is gathered together, the sheer volume of it makes me realize that I _have_ been making this harder on myself. Alec’s been gone for nearly a year, and he’s been with Magnus for nearly half of that time. Thinking he’ll come back – wanting him to come back – has gone from pathetic to downright idiotic.

Still, throwing away all this stuff makes it feel final in a way that nothing – not even seeing him with Magnus – has. I feel discombobulated, like I may just explode if I don’t find some way to channel my energy. Usually that means finding Thomas, but I think it would be pretty rude to just push Théo out the door and ask him to please send his roommate over for a stress-release hand job. Instead, I make my way to the kitchen and pull out a recipe book I haven’t had the chance to use yet.

“Want to stay for dinner?”  

Théo finishes pouring some water for Westley, and then looks up and nods. “Um, sure. Do you want any help?”

“No, you can just sit there.” I point at a chair near the island. “Thomas usually tells me dirty stories about the guys he hooks up with, but I’ll forgive you if you just read your book. I can get a little lost in the process anyway.”

Théo takes my offer, and is halfway through the small novel that was poking out of his bag by the time the food is ready. I arrange it neatly on the plate, and quickly put away the ingredients and start to soak the pots and pans as Théo gets us something to drink.

“Wow,” he says when I put the plates on the table. “It’s very fancy.”

“Yeah, it’s really supposed to be for parties, but I figured I should try it out before I served it to guests.”

“Happy to be your experiment,” Théo says, raising his glass in a toast. “Do you always cook like this?” he asks after a few moments.

“Like what?”

“Like this –” he gestures at the plate, “ – with recipes and fancy arrangements.”

“I guess so.” There’s no point to lie; I’ve always liked instructions.

“It’s like your surfing,” he says after another bite. “Technically very proficient, but lacking personality.”

“Personality?” I bristle, instantly defensive of the criticism. “Food doesn’t have personality.”

“Everything has personality,” Théo says, calmly taking a sip of water as if this isn’t a completely absurd thing to say. “ _Especially_ food. You’ve got to learn to stop following so many rules.”

“Rules are what set us apart from animals,” I counter, getting irritated again. While spending time with Théo has been enjoyable, it’s also been a lesson in managing frustration. He can get under my skin like no one else, it seems.

“Not everything is black and white, Jay. You can’t always follow a recipe.”

I don’t answer, and opt instead to continue with my meal. It’s not that I’m giving up the argument; it’s just that Théo is impossible. He’d never concede, even if I was right, and I’ve learned from my years studying law that there’s just no point to carry on arguments with people like that.

Plus, this food is fucking delicious, if I do say so myself.

* * *

I don’t have much time to spend with anyone for the few days following my dinner with Théo. Midterm exams are approaching, and I have a pile of papers to grade and get back to my students. When Friday comes I change as soon as I get home, and head straight to Thomas’s with Westley. He doesn't need the crate anymore, and loves getting the time to play with Zola, so there's really no point to leave him home.

Thomas and Théo are both in the living room, laughing over some ridiculous French movie. They move to turn it off when I get there, but I don’t want to just barge in and interrupt their night. Plus, after the week I’ve had, just lying down and doing nothing sounds like heaven. I take the sofa, curling up with my head in Thomas’s lap with the intention of napping. After a few minutes he starts threading his fingers through my hair, pulling at the curls. I drift, half-asleep, and make a contented noise into his stomach.

I’m just perfectly content, snuggling closer with a soft sigh, when Théo abruptly storms out of the room. I jolt, confused by the sudden movement and hit Thomas’s chin with the top of my head.

“What happened?” I ask, my heart racing in that ripped-from-sleep panic. “What’s going on?”

“Captain Obvious just stormed out,” Thomas says, pushing himself up. “Contrary bloody French,” he adds on for good measure.

“That’s not really fair,” I say with a yawn. “Maybe he just really needs a cigarette.”

“Oh, so he told you, did he?”

“I kind of found out by accident,” I admit, stretching out so that the tips of my fingers brush against the arm of the sofa. Something in my back pops, and I just want to lie here forever. Instead, I force myself to roll over. “Still it must be hard, having to go all day at work without one.”

“That’s why you think he quit?” Thomas is looking at me like I just said that I’m asking the Easter Bunny to bring me a pet unicorn next month.

“I don’t _think_ anything. He told me that’s why he quit.”

Thomas looks up at the ceiling beseechingly. “I give up,” he says. “Jay, Théo just stormed out of here when you nuzzled me like a cat. Why do you think that is?”

“He doesn’t like PDA?”

Thomas narrows his eyes and I fight the urge to laugh.

“I don’t know,” I say. Honestly, there are a couple of reasons why Théo might be upset, but some of them are too painful to consider. “Maybe he’s got feelings for you?”

“For me?!” Thomas pulls on his hair theatrically. “Are you kidding or just bloody stupid? You do remember the story I told you about how I threw myself at him for a week with no results, right?”

“Yes, and then he paid off your debts and let you move in with him. Then followed you to another continent. You’re absolutely right, I must be jumping to conclusions. Any friend would do the same.”

“Jay, you are missing the point. Just like Théo misses the way you do that stupid thing with your nose whenever you talk to him.” Thomas flops into Théo’s abandoned spot. He sighs, and starts talking again, to himself this time. “A bloody attorney and an English PhD student,” he mutters. “And both too blind to see what’s in front of their damn faces.”

Not interested in pursuing that line of communication, I slip out of the living room, leaving him to his muttering, and find Théo in the kitchen with both dogs, drinking a cup of coffee. “Want some?” he asks quietly. It's impossible to know if he heard Thomas - though I can't imagine how he  _didn't_ \- so I just slip into the chair across from him, ignoring the fact that he just ran from my presence like a madman. 

I decline his offer – even though he makes the best coffee, and it smells divine – and instead grab a couple of the grapes that are sitting in a fruit bowl at the centre of the table.

He drums his fingers against his coffee mug. “Did I thank you for dinner the other night?” he finally says.

“Not really,” I answer. “You mostly just insulted it.”

“Let me make it up to you. I’ll let you make me dinner again.” His feet scuff across the floor in quick succession, until they eventually knock against my own.

“Let me?” I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. “Well, I can’t really refuse an offer like that, can I? Tomorrow work for you?”

“Actually, no." His face twists for a second and he looks away. "I’m away for the weekend.”

“Right." He was here last weekend – I should have remembered. “Going to your appointment.” I meet his eyes, expecting him to elaborate, but he just takes another sip of coffee.

“How about Monday?”

“Sure,” I answer, hiding my disappointment. “Monday sounds great.” 

* * *

 By the time the weekend is drawing to a close, I’m actually _looking forward_ to Théo coming back. Thomas has been acting weird ever since Théo’s grand exit during the movie, and he blows me off to go out on a date with a guy from work who, as he’s said on multiple occasions, “smells like fried food and kisses like an enthusiastic puppy”. I end up spending the entire weekend doing work and eating take-out.

On Sunday I decide that I can’t take another hour trapped in my house, so I take Westley for his first long run. We make it about three miles before he hurts himself on the trail. His high-pitched yelp has my heart hammering in my chest, and by the time I lean down to see what might be wrong the ground is already slick with blood.

“Oh no,” I moan, whipping off my shirt and trying my best to wrap it around his paw. I wince as his sharp teeth nip at my fingers – a direct response to the pain.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I soothe, trying to get him to stop wiggling. I remove the shirt, which isn’t doing anything helpful, and flip him over to try to see if I can find out what’s wrong.

After a couple of quick swipes I can definitely see a piece of glass – brown, so probably from a beer bottle that some asshole couldn’t bother to bring back to his car – poking out of the soft pink pad of his foot. Panicking, because I want to get the glass out, but I also don’t want to _touch_ someone’s dirty garbage – I have to take a minute to compose myself before just going for it. I shove my hand into the folds of my shirt, hoping that that will provide at least a small barrier from the broken glass, and then give it a sharp tug. Westley squeals and there’s a burst of blood that has me wondering if I should have just left the shard in place, but at least the action gives me the leeway to staunch the wound as I’d originally intended.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I murmur as I wrap Westley close to my chest. We’re not far from the parking lot, so it doesn’t take me long to jog back to the car. I situate him into the seat and speed off to my house so that I can quickly pick up his records and get him to the emergency vet.

On the way out of the house, papers in hand and clearly looking like I’ve seen better days, I run right into Thomas, who’s on his way to work.

“Woah, woah,” he says, taking in my harried appearance. “Slow down. What happened?”

“It’s Westley,” I answer quickly. Thomas changes his trajectory, getting details as he follows me to the car. I’m so angry that I can barely get the words out, but thankfully Thomas has become pretty adept at managing – or at least navigating – my moods.

“Oh no, buddy,” he mumbles into Westley’s fur as soon as he opens the door. After a quick cuddle he pops up to meet my eye. “Are you sure you want to go alone? I could call in sick to work –”

“No, no. It’s okay,” I interrupt. I’ve never been to the emergency veterinary clinic, but I can’t imagine it’s a fun way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Plus, I know Thomas is after a new surfboard, and I don’t want to set him back. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

Thomas’s gaze doesn’t waver. “You sure, Princess?”

“I’m sure.”

Though I know he doesn’t want to, Thomas turns and walks toward the bus stop, giving a short wave as I leave the driveway. Westley whimpers and part of me wants to give him the treats that are stashed in my bag, but I don’t know what’s going to need to be done and I don’t want to do anything that might delay treatment. So instead of giving in, I just move my chair back and pull him over to curl up on my lap. The drive to the veterinary clinic takes a little bit longer, but at least I know he’s comfortable.

By the time I get inside and get him situated, I know I’m in for a long night. There are at least twenty people in the tiny waiting area, and there are a string of pets that look like they’re in even worse shape than Wes. The veterinary assistant takes Westley’s papers as soon as we register, and even peeks inside my makeshift bandage as she weighs him, but then just apologizes for the wait and shuffles back behind her desk.

I settle into a chair in the corner and whip out my phone, hoping that the battery will at least get me through a few of the hours that I’m going to be here. But before I can get lost in my sea of emails, someone settles into the seat next to me.

“What happened?” Théo’s voice is low and worried, and he reaches across my lap to scoop up Westley before I can even register who he is.

“What – ” I fumble, flushing as his hands slide against my jeans. He backpedals – realizing, no doubt, what he’s done – and apologizes profusely while hugging Westley to his chest.

I run my hands down the tops of my thighs, trying to dispel the spark of heat that stemmed from his touch. “It’s fine,” I answer, fighting to keep my voice calm and steady. “How did you know we were here?”

“Tommy,” Théo says easily. “He called me to say that Westley was hurt, so I just got off on a different exit and drove straight here.”

“You didn’t have to do that.” I still have no idea what Théo does with his weekends away, but he always comes back drained and morose. “Don’t you want to rest?”

Théo runs his hands over Westley’s head before looking up, and when he answers his voice is soft and sweet. “I want to be here.”

“Okay,” I answer, thankful for years of experience in having to speak, even when forming words seems like an impossible task. I let Théo murmur away to Wes for a few minutes, thankful for the chance to regroup, and then the two of us fall into easy conversation. I try to remember, as I listen to him chatter about work and Thomas and Westley, that this is _Théo_ in front of me. I try to remember that he’s one of the few friends I have in this town. I try to remember that the reason he’s here is Westley, not me; he’s been attached to the dog ever since my trip to New York.

I try and I try, but as with many things that have happened over the past year, trying to dispel the warmth that settled in my chest at the sound of his voice seems more and more like an endeavor that’s doomed to fail.

* * *

Since we didn’t get home until well into the night and he can easily work on his thesis from the comfort of his office, Théo agrees to take Westley the following day. The cut wasn’t too serious – he needed an early tetanus booster and a half a dozen stitches – but that doesn’t keep me from worrying. Thankfully, Théo's periodic texts keep me from being too distracted, and I actually manage to get in a decent day’s work before leaving an hour early.

When I get back the two of them are hanging out in my kitchen, practicing tricks that don’t involve the use of Wes’s front paw.

“Hey buddy,” I greet, scratching Wes’s ears and pushing away any thoughts of how  _good_ Théo looks today. I try hard not to let my gaze linger, but Théo's thick hair is rumpled and messy, and he's wearing a sweatshirt that's much too large for him -  _my_ sweatshirt, which Thomas must have pilfered from my closet. 

He follows my gaze straight down and his face floods with heat as he realizes what he's done. "I - Tommy had it in his room," he scrambles to explain. "Here, I'll just -" He moves to take it off, but I reach out and stop him. 

"Don't," I say, fighting against the sudden dryness in my throat. "You should keep it on. It looks, uh, cozy." 

“Okay.” The tops of his cheekbones remain stained pink, but Théo averts his gaze and smiles at Westley. "He's doing much better today." 

“Good.” I straighten up, only to find a mishmash of ingredients that didn’t come from my fridge scattered on the counter. “What’s all this?”

“Our supper,” Théo says, picking Wes up in his arms. I focus on the food, unable to reconcile what the sight of him hugging my dog while wearing my sweater is doing to me. “I went to the store and picked some stuff up, and now I want you to make something.” He pauses, trying to gauge my reaction. ”Anything.”

“Théo,” I bite, rifling through the ingredients. “I can’t just make _anything_. I need structure. I need a plan.”

“No you don’t.” Théo reaches over and grabs a raw green bean, sticking it in his mouth. Westley snaps off a piece for himself, and then spits it on the floor, disgusted and betrayed.

“Just use your imagination,” Théo says brightly, before turning around and walking straight out the door.

I watch him walk down to the beach and deposit Westley gently in the sand.

“Use your imagination,” I mutter with a terrible French accent. Then, because I can’t stand the thought of failing – even at something as trivial as dinner – I turn around and start preparing.

Cooking without a recipe is _stressful_. I pour ingredients into pots and pans haphazardly, internally freaking the fuck out every time a little bit too much falls in. I also taste constantly, trying to figure out if this is going to taste at all like I want it to, and end up burning my lips and my tongue. By the time everything is ready and I call Théo and Westley back into the house, my hair is completely frizzed out from the steam and my t-shirt is drenched with sweat. I strip off the shirt, throwing it out on the bridge to dry before going to get a new one.

“Smells good,” Théo says as he comes up the steps. He stumbles a little as he walks through the door, and his face is flushed a deep red when he looks up to meet my eyes.

I pull my new t-shirt down and glare at him as soon as my head pops out through. “I hope it poisons you,” I huff, running my fingers through my hair. “Look at what you’ve done.”

Théo reaches out tentatively and touches the curls. “I like them,” he says softly. He steps closer and Westley barks loudly, jumping between us.

With a pounding heart I walk back into the kitchen and, after a fortifying breath, serve up two huge helpings of the chick-pea concoction I’ve come up with, while Théo once again makes sure the dog gets his food.

“Here’s your dinner,” I say, sliding his plate toward him. “Drowning in personality.”

Théo flicks a piece of chickpea at me before settling in. When he finally takes a bite he groans deeply.

I roll my eyes; I expect those kinds of theatrics from Thomas, but not Théo. “It cannot possibly be that good.”

“It’s delicious,” he says, shoveling in another mouthful.

I want to call him a liar, but if the way he scrapes his plate is any indication, then he’s telling the truth. We’re done within ten minutes, and I get up to scrape the leftovers into a Tupperware container and get started on the dishes.

“Wait!” Théo grabs my arm and pulls me toward the door. “Just leave them there.”

I look at the pile of dishes. At the food that’s already starting to congeal onto the plates. It causes me actual physical pain to think of walking away from them without at least a rinse. “Théo, just give me five minutes. I don’t want things to be messy.”

“Life is messy,” Théo presses, tugging me toward the door. “I think sometimes you forget that.”

“Or choose to ignore it.”

“Or choose to ignore it,” he repeats. “Which might actually be worse.” He looks out at the beach for a second. “Just come outside with me,” he says. “Leave the dishes for forty minutes and take a walk with me.”

He sounds so sincere that I can’t help but agree. I know that I’ll think of those dirty dishes the whole damn time, but I at least want to make him feel like he’s helping.

“All right,” I say. He smiles – a small, pleased smile that ends with his tooth caught on his bottom lip – and I run into the counter. My face floods with warmth and I force myself to calm down. This is _Théo_ , after all. Scowly, pretentious Théo.

“Are you coming?” he asks, clearly oblivious to the fact that I’m having some sort of internal crisis. I tell him I am and then grab my phone off the island and follow him outside.

We walk along the beach, chatting about nothing in particular, until my house is long out of sight and I realize that I haven’t been thinking about the dishes at all. Lately, time with Théo seems to stand still; I never have time to miss my old life, worry about school, or dwell on any of the things that usually bother me. His company, as much as this would have surprised me just a few months ago, is soothing.

“Jay?” Théo’s soft voice interrupts me from my reverie, and I look up to find that he’s standing right in front of me. I try to stop in time, but the sand doesn’t make the most forgiving surface, and I end up pressed right against his chest.

“Jay,” he whispers again in his throaty accent. “Do you really think that I’m in love with Tommy?”

“I –” _am not mentally prepared for this question_ , I want to say. _Please select another_. “It makes sense.” My breath catches as I wait for his answer, and I convince myself it’s because I don’t want our friendship to become awkward. Absurdly, I think about telling him that Thomas and I still haven’t had sex. In fact, we haven’t even kissed in weeks.

“You’re wrong,” he whispers. His breath smells like oranges – he must have eaten something since we left the house – and suddenly all I can think of is how I must smell like chickpeas.

“Then why did you storm out of the room the other day?”

“Are you in love with Thomas?” Théo asks, completely ignoring my question.

“What? Thomas? No, absolutely not. I,” I hesitate, thinking about what I’m about to say and making sure that I truly believe it. “I am pleased to say, that for the first time in many years, I’m not in love with anyone.”

Théo leans in closer, brushing the stray curls out of my face and cupping my cheek. “I think,” he says softly, “for the first time in many years, I might _want_ to be in love with someone.”

He leans in and presses his lips against mine, and everything disappears. The heat of the sun, the crash of the waves, the sickening feeling of thinking he’s going to profess his love for Thomas. Nothing registers except the feeling of Théo’s lips against mine.

He starts off hesitantly, but when I don’t shy away, he pulls me in by my elbows, deepening the kiss into something hot and desperate. His arms wrap around my waist and he pulls me closer, groaning when our bodies meet. I can’t help but groan in return at the friction, and Théo takes the opportunity to lick inside my mouth.

I haven’t felt a kiss like this – well, maybe ever. The raw need – the overwhelming feeling of completeness – instantly terrifies me. I pull away, and Théo chases after me, pressing a short, sweet kiss to my lips. It’s unbelievably tender and I am not at all prepared for it.

When Théo draws back and smiles, I feel a horrible unease settling over my shoulders. _I can’t do this_. I can’t handle going through all this again. This is how it starts: with breathless kisses and tender touches, but eventually it all goes to shit. Théo and Thomas are my only friends, and I can’t fuck that up. I don't want to fuck that up. 

“I should go,” I say.

Théo’s face falls and for a second I wish I could take the words back. His lips are a little puffy, and the urge to lean down and press soft kisses along them is nearly overwhelming. But I can’t. The very thought is as terrifying as it is tempting.

“I have to clean my kitchen,” I explain. “It’s just, really messy, and I have to clean it.”

Théo doesn’t say anything; he just sits there, waiting for an explanation I’m not going to be able to give.

“Just, give me some time to process,” I beg, not wanting this to ruin our friendship. “Come over tomorrow?”

Théo’s hope is a tangible thing; his whole body moves forward as he answers. “You want me to?”

I lean in and take his face in my hands, trembling a little. Despite my fear, I kiss him, very softly, before turning away. “I want you to.”

Then, without another word, I turn around to make the long walk back alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that beast of a chapter. :)


	6. Chapter Six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Careful for anyone who might be at work (I've been told before that this happens...) because there is definitely some NSFW content ; )

Théo doesn’t follow me back up the beach. He doesn’t run after me or slink behind me or even walk in the other direction. He just sits in the sand, pulls a book out of his back pocket, and starts reading. I, on the other hand, am nearly shaking with disbelief. Everything that Thomas has been doing for the past week suddenly makes sense. I wonder if Théo even told him about his feelings, or if he’d just picked up on them independently. Regardless, it only solidifies something that I already knew: neither of us will ever deserve a friend like Thomas.

Frazzled and unable to sort through the emotional overload I’m experiencing right now, I decide to take advantage of Thomas’s friendship once again, and end up walking up to Théo’s house instead of my own. I don’t bother knocking – Théo’s obviously not home and it’s too early for Thomas to have gone out yet – and just run straight up to Thomas’s bedroom.

“Oh, fuck,” Thomas says as soon as I walk in the door. “Oh bloody buggering fuck.”

I don’t even answer, just kind of gape at him like a fish from the doorway.

“Tell me you didn’t run away,” he says. “Please, please tell me you didn’t run away.”

“What?” I slide down to the floor, my ass braced against the door. “How do you even know what happened?”

“Oh, Jay,” Thomas says, “because you’re about a subtle as an anvil to the head. And Théo’s worse. If there’s anything more obvious than a Frenchman in love, than I haven’t found it.”

“This is not a joke, Thomas.” I feel my breath catch in my chest and wonder if this is what Alec felt like when he was having a panic attack. Like the entire ceiling was going to cave in and bury him alive. “I’m kind of freaking out.”

Thomas is off the bed and by my side in seconds. “Deep breaths,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles on my back. “You’re going to be all right.”

When my breathing has evened out and I feel like I can talk again, Thomas shifts so that he’s sitting directly across from me. He arranges his long legs into the Lotus position and cradles his face in his hands, looking at me expectantly.

“What?” I feel a little on edge. I’m not really sure if he’s going to help me or hurt me. Coming to talk to the best friend of the guy you may or may not have some significant feelings for and whom you may or may not have abandoned on a windy beach suddenly seems like a piss-poor idea. “Seriously, what?”

“You tell me,” Thomas says, clearly enjoying my discomfort.

“Tell you what?”

“Why you’re here in my room, instead of somewhere else, getting the banging of your life.”

“Jesus, Thomas!”

“Jesus, Jay!” he mimics. “I’m serious, why are you here?”

“I don’t know.” I lean back until my head cracks off the door. The pain is bracing, and if anything it makes me focus a little better. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea.”

Thomas, oddly impassive, just turns his head to the side. “Why not?”

“I told you! I don’t. Know.”

Thomas scoffs. “You don’t know? Jay, you have a five-step plan for making breakfast. You have _four_ different final exams written up for your class based on the _changing political atmosphere_. You know, and obviously on some weirdly repressed, subconscious level, you knew that coming here was the only way to get it out. So shoot. Tell me why this is a bad idea.”

“Us?” It comes out as more of a question than answer, and since all Thomas does is glare at me, I quickly change the topic. “There are a million things,” I spit out. “I’m scared that this will impact our friendship – not just mine and Théo’s, but _ours_ ; I’m scared that I’m not over Alec, and that maybe I’ll never be over Alec; I’m scared that the same thing will happen again, which would basically be the end of me; and I’m just really scared that I’ll be _bad_ at this. There’s a reason everything went to shit last time, and I’m pretty sure that reason was me.”

Thomas’s arms are around me before I get the final words out. “Princess,” he says, pushing the hair out of my eyes. “All that shit is terrifying, but that doesn’t mean that you just run away. That’s not like you, to back off from a challenge. I know that Alec messed you up big time, but it’s been over a year now, and as much as I enjoyed it, you’re not the kind of guy who can live with just a friendly hand job and a quick snuggle.”

I slide my feet along the worn floor of Thomas’s room, pausing only when my toes snag against a knot in the wood.“What if I fuck it up, Thomas?”

“What if running away is you fucking it up?” He lifts my chin up with the back of his hand and smiles. “Do you want to be with him?”

I think about the way Théo always carries around a battered old paperback in his back pocket. About the way his eyes crinkle when he’s surfing and how his accent deepens when he’s upset. I think about his hand on my leg, and his arms around Westley, and his smile at my table. I think about that kiss, and how it was unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.

“Life is messy sometimes,” I answer, thinking now of the dishes that are in my sink and how they’re going to stay there a little bit longer.

“As sloppy as a drunken fuck,” Thomas agrees happily. “I assume that means yes?”

“It means yes.” I get up from the floor and Thomas rises with me, almost bouncing with unrestrained glee. If I didn’t know that he had both our interests at heart, I’d almost be a little insulted. “Thanks, Thomas,” I say with my hand on the doorknob.

Thomas leans in and kisses me softly on the cheek. “Anytime, Princess.” He reaches back and grabs my ass, winking when I yelp. “For old time’s sake.”

“You’re a dirty pervert, Thomas Werther,” I shout as I walk out the door.

“Truer words were never spoken.” He leans over the rail as I take the stairs two by two. “Speaking of, do you think that as a consolation prize, you could maybe crack the door a smidge when you and Théo are making the ole beast with two backs? It’ll help get me through those sleepless nights.”

“Not on your life!” I yell as I slam the door shut and head back toward the beach, blood humming in my veins. 

* * *

 I run down the beach, not caring that my curls are going to look like a crow’s nest by the time I get to Théo or that my t-shirt is soaked through with sweat. A couple of girls wolf-whistle as I pass, but I barely have time to register the sound. All I can focus on is the tiny black speck in the distance. My lungs are burning and my breaths are coming in short pants, but I don’t slow down, not until I’m only a few feet away.

Théo doesn’t even look up. I’m not even sure what he’s reading – the cover is folded over and held in place by his pinky – but he’s completely enthralled. I’ve never seen anyone who can get lost in a book like he can. His hair is a little messy from the wind and his skinny legs are stretched out in front of him, and I don’t know how I’ve been able to ignore how fucking gorgeous I think he is. I slow down as soon as I can hear the soft rustle of paper as he turns the page. I take a breath, suddenly unsure, and step into his light.

“Jay.” He says my name in a reverent hush and lets his book fall into the sand.

“Théo.” I drop to my knees in front of him, crawling forward so that I’m situated between his legs.

“What are you doing here?” The words are so soft that they’re almost swallowed by the gentle hiss of the waves, but Théo’s face is message enough. My gut twists at the fact that I left him out here, no matter for how brief a period.

“I was thinking about getting a second kiss,” I say, swallowing thickly. “Perhaps with a different ending this time.”

Théo doesn’t say anything in reply. He surges forward, dragging me on top of him. When his hands thread in my hair and our bodies press together, there’s no time to think of the fact that we’re in public, or that we’re rolling on the dirty sand, or that my t-shirt is probably sticking to his skin. There’s only the electrifying feeling of his lips against mine, and the low groan that escapes when he tugs lightly on my hair. He uses my surprise to his advantage, flipping us over so that I’m the one on the ground and he’s on top of me; with absolutely no care for public decorum, he kisses me hungrily. His tongue presses against mine gently, and I feel a spark of heat that unravels in my chest and radiates outward like a burst of fireworks. He then moves to my teeth, my lips, until he’s messily kissing his way down my throat. I pant as he nibbles lightly on the sensitive skin, and he responds by moaning obscenely and following up with a stream of incomprehensible French.

“You can’t,” I force out as he goes back to my neck. “You can’t speak French like that, not out here, on the beach.”

“ _Pourquoi_?” he murmurs in my ears, grinning as I shiver. He switches back to English. “Does it _distract_ you?”

“Come home with me,” I groan into his neck, running my hands under his t-shirt and up the smooth skin of his back. “Please, God, come home with me.” 

* * *

 The trip up the beach feels like an eternity, and I’ve barely pushed the front door open when Théo slams me into the nearest wall. We pick our way to the bedroom in a flurry of kisses and bites, pieces of clothes falling by the wayside. We fall onto my bed haphazardly, limbs askew and lips reaching for any slice of bare skin. Théo presses me down, still fully dressed, and runs his hands along my sides as I push myself up toward the pillows.

“Can I?” he asks, tugging at my shorts.

I nod quickly, not trusting myself to speak, and he leans down to trace his tongue along the ridges of my stomach. He murmurs something else, too low for me to hear if it’s even English or French, but heat still unfurls in my abdomen at the thought. The tracing of his tongue changes to wet, open-mouthed kisses, and I wrap my fists in the blankets, trying hard not to cry out. He slowly makes his way up, kissing from the line of my boxers, past my navel, up my chest, until he finally gets back to my neck. He rolls so that his body is flat against mine, and he holds himself up by his elbows. All it takes is one quick roll of his hips, and I whine in a way that’s acutely embarrassing.

Théo smiles, and in complete contrast to the heat of his previous affections, he leans down to kiss me on the nose. “We can stop if you want,” he says, settling down on my chest. His hand traces lazily up and down my side. “I don’t want to push.”

Just the simple touch of his fingers against my skin is driving me wild. Though it seems ludicrous, especially after my hesitancy with Thomas, there’s no part of me that wants to stop. There’s no way that I’ll be satisfied with taking it slowly. I want Théo, with a hard, unyielding force that’s fucking terrifying, but I think – I hope – is worth it.

“I want you,” I murmur, pulling him up to meet my lips again. “I want you so fucking much.”

Apparently that’s all the reassurance Théo needs, because he’s back to his initial goal in a heartbeat. I barely have time to suck in a breath of air before my boxers are discarded and his mouth is descending around my cock.

Even though there’s no else here, I grab one of the pillows and press it over my face. I moan helplessly, unable to deal with the sudden onslaught of sensation. It’s been over a year since anyone has done this, and it’s all I can do to try to calm down and keep from embarrassing myself like a hormonal teenager. Just when I’ve reached the brink, when my legs start to shake and I feel like I can’t hold out another second, Théo pulls away and licks his way back up my body.

Any previous inhibitions about kissing after blowjobs go out the window. I grab Théo, who is kissing delicately around my neck, trying to gauge what I want, and kiss him as deeply and messily as I had on the beach. I grope for the drawer of my bedside table, fumbling through paperclips and pencils until I find the condoms I’m looking for. I toss one on the bed, leaving it up to Théo to put it on whichever of us he prefers, and search out the lube. I’ve just found the bottle, when I feel the sensation of a condom being unrolled on my hot skin.

“Are you sure?”

Théo nods and pulls back the light blankets that are covering the bed, slipping inside. He sighs – the sheets must be cool on his heated skin – and pulls me down gently.

I prop myself above him, moving my hands to the hem of his t-shirt. “Is it okay if I –”

There’s a second of hesitancy, and this is so new – there is this whole new layer of Théo that I still need to learn how to navigate – that I’m not sure what to do. I lean down and kiss him as softly as I can. Once we’ve separated, he wiggles out of his t-shirt, and tosses it to the floor by the side of the bed before shifting further down in the blankets. 

The kisses change then, but are no less intense. They go from frantic and needy to open-mouthed and passionate. When Théo slides his tongue against mine I can feel the sensation everywhere. One kiss ignites my entire body, until I’m so overwhelmed that I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep myself up. I run my hands over his body this time, taking in his soft, smooth skin with the same reverence he showed mine. He flushes a little, embarrassed when I kiss my way down his stomach, and attempts to pull the blanket across, but I just lift myself back up to his neck and whisper to him that he’s perfect, reveling in the way he shudders at my touch.

At the first press of my fingers Théo’s breath catches, and I lean up and try to distract him from the discomfort. I kiss him – fuck, I could kiss him forever – until he presses forward for more, stroking and stretching as carefully as I can. When I finally press inside, the heat and the pressure and just the knowledge that this is Théo – unpredictable, volatile Théo – who’s letting me do this, is unreal.

I move slowly to allow him time to get used to the sensation, but also because this isn’t something to be rushed. We’ll have time – at least, I hope we’ll have time – for fast and sloppy, but right now I just want to hold on to this feeling. To make Théo feel like I do: like nothing else matters but this. Like nothing else matters but us.

As Théo gets a little more involved, my pace becomes more and more erratic. Théo’s soft words and gentle moans transform into the same incoherent French that drove me wild on the beach, and I can’t control the way that hearing that small break in his carefully constructed persona makes me feel. The tension builds, and I reach my hand down to stroke him off to the rhythm of our thrusts. When he comes he gasps – it’s a small, breathy sound – and I am powerless to it. I follow immediately after, lost in a haze of sensation that clouds my mind and sucks the energy from my body.

I barely have the presence of mind to haul off and dispose of the condom before I tumble into the soft blankets in a tangle of loose limbs. Théo, flushed and adorably loopy, curls into me, pressing his face into the hollow of my neck. I roll onto my back and he drapes a leg across my waist and nuzzles closer.

“ _La petite mort_ ,” he murmurs, startling me a little. I had assumed he’d already fallen asleep.

“Hmm?”

“ _La petite mort_ ,” he repeats. “It means ‘the little death’. It’s that feeling after sex, where you can’t think or move or anything. You can only exist.”

“I think I understand what you mean.” I laugh softly, running my fingers up the suntanned skin of his back.

He keeps his head tucked against my neck, and I can feel the warm sensation of his breath on my skin. “I used to think that for me, la petite mort only existed at the end of books. In that surreal feeling after you finish something truly life-changing. I didn’t think that it was something that could be shared with someone else.”

I wrap my arms around his small frame, hugging him tightly. “Until tonight?”

“ _Exactement_ ,” he murmurs sleepily, pressing a final soft kiss to my collarbone. “Until tonight.”

* * *

For the first time in my professional career, I call in sick to work. I’m sure my students don’t mind – I only have two classes a week, and I’ve convinced a guest speaker to come in for one of them – and I’m so far ahead that it really makes no difference to my workload.

In the morning Théo helps me do the dishes and we make breakfast together. We get distracted somewhere between the making and eating the bacon, and somehow, with his sex-flushed face and soft smile, Théo convinces me to let him eat in bed afterward. On that first day we only leave the house once, to let Westley run around, and spend very little of our house-time outside the bedroom.

We fit together surprisingly well. There’s none of the awkwardness I felt when I first tried to sleep with Thomas, and the sex is, well, _hot_. There’s really no other way to describe it. When I was with Alec things were nice. Kissing Alec was nice and sleeping with Alec was nice, and sex with Alec was nice. With Théo it’s like I’ve been possessed, like I need to be as close to him as possible. We move from the bed, to the floor, to the shower, and by the end of the day I’m completely spent. Thankfully, we don’t run out of things to talk about, and the down time is just as satisfying as the sex.

Things don’t get awkward until we finally leave the cover of my house and start spending some time at Théo’s. For the first couple of nights Thomas finds ways to make himself scarce. He goes on dates, takes extra shifts at work, and parties with friends, always ducking out of the room when Théo and I enter.

Thankfully, they must have some sort of conversation the week I go back to work, because when I drop over on Monday night, I find the both of them curled up in the living room as if nothing’s changed.

The only problem is that Théo won’t touch me. He makes some room for me on the sofa, but unlike at my house, he sits up as straight as a board, eyes trained straight ahead. I rest my hand on his leg, and he jumps like a scared animal at the touch. Before I can ask him what the hell is going on, Thomas sighs loudly and gets up from his chair and saunters over.

“You,” he says, looking directly at Théo, “are being ridiculous.” He grabs our heads, and shoves them together in a pantomime of kissing. “You’re making this so fucking awkward. I’m neither an infant nor a prude. You’re not going to scar me with a bit of tongue. I mean, I’ve seen a fair amount of Jay alread–”

He doesn’t have time to finish his sentence before Théo quietly gets up from his spot in front of the television and marches straight upstairs. His door slams and Thomas and I wince simultaneously.

“Nicely done, Thomas,” I mutter, shoving at his shoulder.

“Oh, fuck,” Thomas groans, falling back into his chair. “I wanted to make it less awkward, not make him storm away like a disgruntled four year old.” He looks up at me, face contrite. “The stuff between us, it was just friend stuff, right? It didn’t mean anything. It was a just a bit of fun.”

“Yeah, but maybe having sex isn’t just a bit of fun to Théo.”

“No,” Thomas corrects, sitting up a little straighter. “Having sex with _you_ is not just a bit of fun to Théo.”

I pull out my phone, trying to shield my face, but Thomas isn’t fooled. “Aww, Princess, you’re blushing.”

“Shut up,” I hiss, desperate to change the subject. “Could you try to dial back the flirting at least a little?”

“It’s second nature. Théo knows that. Do you think he’s just going to forget everything that’s happened over the past year? You were my bloody friend first, and I will not let him turn this into some kind of grand drama.”

The urge to defend Théo – even against Thomas, who I know loves him – goes beyond the limits of my usual temperament. “Think about how he feels for a second. I know having sex is like reading the morning paper for you, but we’re not all like that. You’re going to have to take it easy on him. You weren’t like this with Riley, were you?”

“Obviously I wasn’t like this with – ” Thomas stops and glares up at me. “Nice try, Princess. You’re not finding out about that shitstorm from me. If you really want to know, then go ask your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend. The word makes me feel giddy and ridiculous, and I practically float up the stairs with the stupidest smile on my face, because Théo is my boyfriend. At least, I think he is.

I don’t want to barge in when I get upstairs, so I knock softly on the door.

“No English allowed,” Théo spits.

“Now that’s not really very specific,” I answer. “Are we talking British-English or just English speakers?”

“No annoying lawyers either,” Théo huffs, but the harshness has mostly faded.

“Can I please come in?”

He doesn’t answer, so I just go in anyway. Théo is sitting at his desk, grading first year essays with particular vehemence.

I look over his shoulder at the angry scrawls of red pen. “Are you really sure you want to tell that poor freshman that you’ve seen better writing from your six year old cousin?”

Théo just throws the pen across the room and flops down on the paper. “I know I’m being an idiot,” he says. “I just keep thinking about all those times I had to watch you with Tommy. Tommy kissing you and Tommy dragging you up to his bedroom, and it’s driving me insane.”

“Hey.” I take his hand and lead him over to the bed. “You know that all that meant nothing, right? At least, not in the way that you think. It wasn’t the same with Thomas as it is with you – it was really just comforting, being able to be close to someone.”

“I know, Thomas has told me like a thousand times.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “It’s just like Gareth all over again.”

“Gareth? As in the dude I talked to _once_? And who you fucked right in front of me?”

Théo at least has the decency to look abashed. “I couldn’t help it,” he says. “He just kept going on and on at work about how _hot_ , and how _brave_ and how _nice_ you were.”

“And what, you were jealous that he wasn’t fawning over you anymore?”

I’m not sure how Théo manages to look irritated and fond at the same time, but I have a feeling it’s a look I’ll be seeing a lot from him. “No, you idiot. I was jealous that he wanted you, and that maybe you might want him back.”

“So you fucked him to keep him away from me? You’re right.” I push him back on the bed. “You are insane.”

Théo pulls me down so that we’re face to face. “You make me insane,” he says, a hint of pink spreading over his cheekbones. “The whole Tommy thing doesn’t really bother me that much. It’s just, I know that I’ll always have to live up to stupid Alec Lightwood, and I guess I figured that Tommy was an easier target. At least a friend-with-benefits I can trump.”

I prop myself up by my elbow, so that I can peer down at Théo. Even now, half irritated at his unwarranted possessiveness, I have to force myself not to kiss him. “Now you’re being stupid,” I say, moving my free hand up to cup his face. “ _You’re_ the person I want to be with. Not Gareth, not Thomas, and not Alec – not anymore. You don’t have competition from anybody.”

He blushes so prettily that I spend the next hour and a half helping him understand that very concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I don't know who would even notice, but the chapter count went from 10 to 12. One of the reasons is that I split this chapter (which was another GIANT) into two parts. So I know this one is a little shorter, but at least it's going up a little quicker :)


	7. Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone read the old version of BtSatS a few years ago, this is the chapter where you will see the most difference! There are a couple of entirely new scenes :)
> 
> Another NSFW chapter. This story, I've realized, is by far the smuttiest one I've written. *blushes* hopefully you guys enjoy :) The rest of the chapters will go up much more quickly, since I don't have to write as much new content.

After our conversation in Théo’s bedroom, things with Thomas become a lot less strained. The three of us start hanging out again, and most of the time Thomas’s inappropriate jokes don’t bother Théo in the slightest. Classes are going better than ever – aside from the day that Théo thinks it’s a fantastic idea to mark me up like a horny teenager and my Rate My Prof page is filled with various permutations of “Professor Grayson got laid” with copious amounts of exclamation marks.

And yet, Théo continues to be hesitant. He doesn’t say anything further about Tommy – or Alec, for that matter – but it’s hard to ignore the way he always tenses up when I mention New York or the self-deprecating comments he makes when we go out together. It’s been months, and he still feels the need to _ask_ if I want to meet him for coffee. His insecurity is something, for all my own struggles with inadequacy, that I’m not sure how to erase. As much as I wish that my getting over Alec had been a private affair, Théo had been privy to some of my worst moments, and I know that no amount of willing those memories away is going to convince him that my feelings have changed. There's no simple way to make him believe that even though a small part of me will always miss him, I feel _better_ being apart from Alec. No easy way to prove to him that for all that I thought I was supposed to live out my life with Alec, nothing compares to the quiet moments I spend with Théo’s head on my chest, content and warm and _alive_ in a way that I’ve never been before.

I decide, with Thomas’s help, that a weekend away is the perfect solution.

“You’re sure this isn’t going to freak him out?” I’ve asked the same question three times, and Thomas looks like he’s ready to bludgeon me with the notebook I’ve brought over.

“These notes?” Thomas says, flicking through the pages of driving routes, packing lists, insurance forms, and reservation numbers. “I can’t see how they wouldn’t; I’m not even going on this trip and I’m frankly terrified.”

“You’re such an ass.” I grab the notebook out of Thomas’s grasp and smack him on the fingers with it. “I’m serious. I don’t want to scare him away.”

Thomas reaches out and tips up my chin, suddenly serious. “Jay, you do realize how he looks at you, right? I’ve known him for nearly a decade, so believe me when I say that you have _nothing to worry about_.”

And so I go about my plans, marginally soothed and quietly hoping that Thomas knows Théo as well as he thinks he does.

\--

I needn’t have worried; Thomas, as it so often happens, is right. Théo accepts my offer with a sweet enthusiasm, and his obvious surprise only solidifies my belief that this is a good idea. We leave that Friday morning, after my last class of the week, and take the scenic route along the coast to Santa Barbara. Théo chats away about weekends spent traveling around Southern France with his grandmother, pausing every once in a while so that I can listen to the lyrics of some French song or another. He smiles more easily than at home, and when he leans over and places his hand over mine on the gear shift, I already consider the weekend a success.

San Ysidro, the private ranch that Emma recommended after staying there for a conference a few years ago, is completely secluded. We pull in mid-afternoon, and follow the winding path for nearly a half an hour before arriving at our private chalet.

The room itself is gorgeous, with a master suite that opens right into a courtyard bursting with flowers. There’s a private pool, a selection of fruit and champagne that’s been set out for us to enjoy, and an outdoor rainfall shower. Starving from the drive, I put off settling in and instead pad out to the deck and pop a piece of orange into my mouth. I turn to find Théo staring at me from the doorway, a soft smile on his face.

“What?” I smile, pushing up my sunglasses so that they’re nestled in my tangled hair. “I was hungry.”

Théo moves forward slowly, not stopping until he has me pushed up against the cool stone wall of the cottage.

“You are amazing,” he whispers before leaning in to press his lips against mine. And it’s _this exact feeling_ – the sensation of Théo’s fingers threading through my hair and Théo’s tongue against my lips, and Théo’s knees against my leg – that I wish I could convey. If only this could be distilled – a perfect, heart-pounding expression of what I feel – then I’d never need to see that haunted, unsure look on his face again.

Wanting – _needing_ – him to feel at least a fraction of what he’s done to me, I pull him closer. He shudders as I run my hands down the expanse of his back, and I take that moment to spin, pinning him against the wall. He groans and I run one hand down his back, not stopping until my hand reaches his ass.

“I’m sorry,” I groan, squeezing a little too hard. “I just – your ass. You have no idea how much I love it.”

I don’t need to look to know that he’s blushing. I press even closer, then snake my other arm down around his hips. With a quick jerk he’s up in my arms with his back braced against the wall. He wraps his legs around me quickly, and it feels so good I can barely breathe.

“Jesus, Théo,” I murmur, pulling away for an instant. “You are just, so –”

Before I can finish, Théo’s hands are at my shorts, tugging down on the zipper. I shift, trying to give him room to slide them down over my hips. Then, using one hand to brace him up and the other to guide his fingers to the hem of my shirt, I get rid of one of the layers between us. The midafternoon sun is hot, and the thin fabric of his t-shirt constitutes one layer too many. I slip my hand up the front of his shirt, but before I can move, he’s broken the kiss and is pushing my hand back down.

“Wait, wait,” he pants, resting his head against my shoulder. “Maybe we should go back inside? Into bed?”

I pull back a little, shivering as Théo’s fingers trace against the bare skin of my sides. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him, sweet and slow and soft.

“If that’s what you really want, we can go in.” I say, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. “The last thing I ever want to do is push to into anything you’re not comfortable with. But if this has anything to do with your body, then I just want to make sure you know that I love the way you look.” I move my hands down from his face, not stopping until they rest on his hips. “I mean it, Théo. I wouldn’t change anything about you.”

Théo whimpers quietly as my hands sweep around his back once again. “It’s just,” he says, breathing shallowly, “you look _so good_.” There’s another sharp intake of breath as I run my fingers along the edge of his t-shirt, just sweeping the soft skin that shows there. “And then there’s Tommy, and I know that – ”

“Hey,” I say, pushing forward for another kiss. The last person I want to be on Théo’s mind this weekend is Alec. When I pull back, I make sure that he’s looking at me. “ _You_ are amazing – incomparable, in every way.”

Théo surges up toward me, guiding my hands to his shirt this time. When I pull it over his head, messing up his artfully rumpled hair, he tenses for the briefest second, but quickly relaxes into my touch. I run my hands over every inch of his body – something I’ve done countless times in our beds, but never like this. Never out in the open, where I’m free to look and touch without any interference, and it feels more intimate than anything we’ve done together so far. I use my free hand to slip Théo’s shorts down over his legs, and he steps out of them clumsily, falling into me before they’re kicked away.

“Come here.” I lift him up for the second time, stepping all the way out of my own shorts as I start to move. Then I carry him over to the shower, flipping the switch as I settle him against the tiles. The shock of cold against the blazing heat of the sun feels amazing, and I relish the small gasp he makes against my lips.

It doesn’t take long for the water to warm up. We kiss – an erotic, warm, slick slide of lips and tongues and water – and my legs shake with the pleasure of it. I nip at Théo’s lip and his whole body jerks in response; from there I move slowly, kissing across his face and settling on his neck. I bite at the delicate skin before slipping my hand down over his stomach to jerk him off slowly.

“You feel,” I say between kisses. “ _So_ fucking good.” He falls back, his head thudding against the wall of the shower, and a stream of barely-coherent French falls from his lips. I smile as he comes undone, and fall to my knees in front of him. I kiss across his stomach, heat bubbling up through my chest as he runs his fingers through my hair. I make my way down, purposefully slowing my movements, enjoying every twist of Théo’s fingers and every startled, shaking breath he takes. I press my face against his lower abdomen, so close to where I know he wants me to be, and he finally breaks.

“Jay, _please_.” He looks down at me, open and _needy_ and unraveled and I have no choice but to give in. In the face of Théo, wrung out and beautiful, I am powerless to resist.

\--

It takes a couple of hours, but we finally reach a point where our hunger overpowers the desire to be constantly touching. We’ve made our way from the garden into the King-sized bed, and I’m spent; I lie, facedown, tracing lazy circles on Théo’s back as he reads one of the novels that had been left on the bedside table. Though I’m loath to do anything, my stomach growls loudly enough to pull Théo from his book.

“I suppose we should probably feed that.” He stretches, arching his back off the bed in a way that makes me forget the very existence of food. I crawl over toward him, but my stomach growls again as soon as I move, and I just collapse onto his back in a heap.

“My diaphragm,” he puffs, trying to roll me off. “I can’t breathe. It’s like the entire ceiling fell in on my back.”

“Well that was incredibly rude.” I roll off, reaching out to pull Théo on top of me as I go. He squawks and drops his book, but then melts quietly into my kiss. He shifts from my lips toward my neck, ready to start trailing kisses downward, but another gigantic gurgle distracts him from his task.

“Okay, you need food.” I open my mouth to argue – who would choose food in a situation like this? – but he narrows his eyes and slips gracefully off the bed. “No arguing.”

I fall backward into the pile of pillows, adjusting my shorts with a groan as he pokes around the room.

“Here we go,” he finally says, pulling my travel notebook out of its place in my satchel. “Now how much would I bet that you have – ha! A reservation.” He glances up at me, smirking. “Always so prepared.”

“Shut up.” I roll off the bed, grabbing a new shirt from my bag. “It’s important to be prepared.”

When I turn, Théo is right in front of me. Any trace of superiority is gone as he reaches up and kisses me gently. “I like that you’re prepared.”

He pulls me toward the bathroom to get ready, and I follow after without a second thought.

\--

Dinner is in the corner of a quiet garden, interrupted infrequently by the servers, whenever they want to bring out a new dish. The portions are small, but exquisite, and Théo spends half the time making fun of me for snapping pictures.

“Taking notes for when you get home? Is this the kind of dinner I’m going to have to expect from now on?” He rolls a piece of salmon back and forth on his plate, half-finished when I haven’t even started to try mine yet.

“You should watch out. Much more attitude and you’ll be lucky if you get served dinner ever again.”

Rolling his eyes, Théo grabs my phone from my hand and springs up to stand on his chair, pointing the camera down at the plate. “Move the candle a bit to the left,” he directs. He squats, and I’m so distracted by the sight of him up there that I don’t even bother to think about how inappropriate this is. Or what it would look like if one of the waiters came back to find Théo teetering over our table.

“There, perfect.” He thrusts the phone over and I flick through the roll to find a magazine quality photo. The lighting is excellent and will make it easy for me to replicate the plating at home.

It’s a sweet gesture, and fills me with more warmth than I’m expecting. “Thank you, Théo,” I murmur, reaching out to run my finger against his wrist.

He mumbles something under his breath, saved from having to actually reply by the appearance of the sommelier. He hands off the wine list to Théo and they chat for a few minutes in French before he leaves us to decide.

“Do you want me to tell you about any of the selections?” Théo hands the list of wine over, taking the time to brush his fingers against mine in the process. “There are some pretty good choices there.”

I recognize a few of the names, but I certainly don’t have the same experience with wine as Théo. “No, I think I’ll defer to your expert opinion.”

“What’s that?” Théo grins – an impish flash of teeth that he definitely picked up from Thomas. “Could you please repeat that sentence so that I can record it? I’m serious – that is quite possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

I flick the wine list back at him. “Fuck you,” I say, grinning as he stops the paper from floating to the ground.

“What an idea.” His voice is low and gravelly, and he leans across the table, eyes hooded in the flickering candlelight. “I don’t know about you, but I’m not really feeling the wine and dessert right now.”

It’s been three hours at most since I had my hands all over him, but already feels like an eternity.

“I couldn’t agree more.” I’m up in a matter of seconds, and take his hand as soon as he leaves his own seat. I pause for a brief instant, just long enough to leave instructions at the table for the meal to be charged to our room, and then set off across the grounds, my entire body giddy with anticipation.

When we arrive back at the cottage we take our time, luxuriating in the space and silence. We take each other apart slowly, reveling in the privilege of uninterrupted hours. It’s long past midnight before we’re spent, and when Théo finally stops talking and falls asleep, curled into me, the aching heat of everything I feel for him takes root in my chest. I push his hair back from his face and brush my fingers against the soft skin of his back, just because I can. And lying there, with his limbs tangled in mine and his breath against my neck, I feel a happiness I thought was lost to me forever.

\--

After our time away, everything is perfect – _almost_. For twelve days out of fourteen, I’m deliriously happy. Théo makes me laugh, he gets me out of my comfort zone – he even gets me to read a work of fiction. We squabble sometimes, but the makeup sex is amazing, and if it’s his fault he’ll usually make me crepes with ice cream afterward.

It’s just that every second weekend he leaves. And every second weekend I have no idea where he’s going. And every second Friday, when I walk over to say goodbye, I invariably interrupt a heated discussion between him and Thomas, which immediately falls silent when I enter.

I think about bringing it up. I could ask about Riley, since he obviously has something to do with it. I could ask to tag along – with finals over and nothing to do but sit around and wait for a call from Emma to tell me the baby’s here, I have loads of free time.

Over the first weekend in May I’m stuck at home by myself, with nothing to think about but how much I hate not knowing what Théo’s doing. It’s not that I think he’s cheating on me – he’s been nothing but the perfect boyfriend, and besides, I don’t think Thomas would let him get away with that – it just hurts knowing that he still doesn’t trust me enough to let me know. I’m trying to think of a good way to broach the subject when I get a frenzied phone call from my brother-in-law.

“Jay!” he yells when I pick up. “It’s a boy! We had a boy!”

The shock of the news is so great that I have no idea how to respond. I feel startled and discombobulated and a bit like I’m going to be sick. “She didn’t even tell me she was in labor,” I manage to choke out after a moment. “I am not prepared for this news.”

“Me neither, buddy!” Lucas sounds drunk and dazed and like the happiest person in the world. He obviously doesn’t know what he’s in for.

“Congratulations,” I say, because despite my own thoughts about kids, I’m pretty sure that’s what’s expected. “Is Emma in any shape to talk?”

“Not really,” he replies, apologetic. “But she said that you’ll be the first person she calls.”

“Thanks for letting me know, Luke. Tell her I love her.”

“I will! She’ll call you as soon as she’s settled on a name.”

“I’ll expect to hear from her in a month,” I joke. I’d told her not to wait until the baby was born to start deciding on names, but she had insisted that she wanted to _meet him first_. Still, I keep these thoughts to myself and focus on be happy for my sister and her husband. “Congratulations, man.”

“Thanks, Jay.” Lucas sounds like he may cry, and I feel a rush of fondness. I’m happy that my sister found somebody who loves her – and now their son – so much. “Means a lot.”

He disconnects, and I immediately whip out my phone. First I send off a text to Thomas, asking him where the fuck he is, because I need him, pronto, and then I dial Théo. I chew the inside of my cheek as the rings go through. I’ve never called Théo on one of his away weekends before, and the uncertainty over what to expect is nearly overwhelming. He’s never told me _not_ to call, but it’s a precedent that’s been set since we first started dating, and I really don’t want to annoy him. Still, this is good news and I’m sure he’ll be pissed if I tell Thomas and not him.

Six rings have gone in and I’m about to hang up when finally I hear a frazzled, _Allo_ from the other end.

“Théo, it’s me.”

“Jay, are you all right?” He sounds so concerned that any thoughts of being considered an annoyance evaporate.

“Yeah,” I say, a little happier just hearing his voice. “I just wanted to tell you the news. Emma had her baby!”

“That’s amazing!” Théo sounds genuinely happy, and I let out a little of the breath I was holding. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

“Boy.”

“Name?”

“Unnamed as of yet.”

“Ahh, what about his weight? How is he doing? Does he have lots of hair?”

Shit, I didn’t ask _any_ of that stuff. What if Lucas thinks I’m going to be a bad uncle? Does this _make_ me a bad uncle? Fuck, Emma’s going to be pissed when she finds out I didn’t ask a single question about her baby. She’ll kill me.

“You didn’t ask, did you?” Théo’s voice sounds fond, and I want to melt right through the phone.

“I guess I was too caught up in the excitement.”

“Yeah?” Théo’s voice is a little too casual. “You’re excited about having a baby around?”

Oh, crap. This is one of those conversations that needs to happen in person. Unless Théo is just teasing. He’s probably just teasing. “I’m excited about having a nephew,” I say tentatively. “Someone I can buy presents for and put up pictures of, but not have to actually _parent_. It’s like all the perks with none of the messy stuff.”

Théo laughs. “You’re getting better at the messy stuff.”

“Not that good.”

Théo laughs again, but the sound is flatter this time – more hollow. “I should probably be going,” he says. “I’m pretty tired. Plus, you should go pick something out for the baby. A welcome to the world present.”

“Uh, yeah. I should. I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?”

“See you on tomorrow,” he says. Then in a hushed voice, “tu me manques.”

“Yeah,” I reply, somehow even sadder than when I called. “I miss you too.”

 --

Thomas shows up about forty minutes after I tell him what’s happened, carrying a large pizza and a twenty-four pack of beer.

“Uncle Jay!” he yells as soon as he barges through the door, clearly already a little tipsy. “I have pizza and beer, and I’ve been informed by your boyfriend that I am in no way allowed to proposition you for sex.” He winks as he cracks open a bottle. “So don’t even ask.”

“Tempting,” I say as he tosses me a bottle of my own. “But I think I’ll be able to resist the siren call.”

We drink steadily, hoping that the pizza will soak up some of the alcohol, and then being as surprised as newly initiated frat boys when it doesn’t. Thomas keeps sneaking Westley pieces of crust under the table, and I keep exclaiming, at random intervals, “My sister has a _baby_.”

“Théo told me I need to get a present,” I say eventually, when things have calmed down. There are more beer bottles on the table than left in the box, and Thomas keeps insisting that we play caps.

“S’good idea,” he slurs as he lurches forward to try to knock off my bottle cap with his own. “Théo’s good at that stuff.”

“Yeah, he is.” The beer makes me feel soupy and warm. I wish that Théo were here, so that I could take him up to bed. “Do you want to go help me pick it up tomorrow? I should probably ship it right away, so it’s waiting for them at home.”

“Why would you ask me?” Thomas wobbles a little. “When you have Théo?”

“I don’t know, because you’re actually here? Just because Théo is my boyfriend doesn’t mean we can’t hang out. I don’t need him to go everywhere with me.”

“Yeah, I know,” Thomas says. “You know that’s not what I meant. I meant, you know,” he rambles on. “I meant the other thing.”

I giggle and stretch out my leg to push Thomas over. “You’re wasted.”

“You’re right.” He gets up and hobbles over to the sofa. “Think I should take a nap, Princess,” he says. He’s asleep within seconds, leaving me to tidy up the mess.

 --

In the morning I decide to go get the present by myself. Thomas is still comatose on the couch when I get up at eleven, so I just deposit Westley by his feet, pour him up a glass of water, and set my GPS to find the nearest baby store.

As soon as I’m there I know I shouldn’t have come alone. There are _mountains_ of stuff, and I have no idea where or go or what to buy. Obviously my confusion shows, because one of the sale clerks comes up to offer her very enthusiastic advice.

Two hours, a migraine, and four hundred dollars later, I walk out of the store unsure of what I’ve even purchased. The clerk wrapped the entire thing in periwinkle blue paper, and I pray to God that Emma just thinks it’s cute and not some kind of cultural statement about sexism and the patriarchal dichotomy of baby colors. I fix the bow as soon as I get to the car, smoothing out the wrinkles that the clerk left, and then head straight to the mail to post it. Then, since I’m out, I decide to run to the grocery store and pick up some food. Théo should be back soon and I want to make him something for dinner. He always looks a little worn out after his weekends away.

When I get back to the house, neither Thomas nor Westley is there. I’m assuming they headed over to Théo’s, so I pop one of the croissants out of the package I just bought for Théo at this little French bakery downtown, and mosey next door. The door is unlocked as always, so I just push my way in. There are voices coming from the kitchen, and I tiptoe in quietly, praying that I’m not about to walk in on Thomas stark naked.

Much to my surprise, Thomas is not in the kitchen with his flavor of the day - he’s in there with Théo. Who looks _pissed_.

“You need to tell him,” Thomas says, throwing bits and pieces of vegetables into a bowl violently. “He deserves to know.”

“I know that, Tommy. I just know what’s going to happen.”

“You’re not giving him enough credit. Plus, he’s just going to be hurt if he finds out some other way.”

Théo’s voice is pointed. “Like _what_ other way?”

“I almost told him last night!” Thomas upends the salad bowl by accident, scaring Zola and Westley. “I was fucking drunk and almost told him by accident. And I feel like shit, but maybe it would have been better if I had. Maybe it would have forced you to grow up and tell him the truth.”

“I don’t want to lose him.”

Théo’s voice is small and hurt, and I’m torn between the urge to run in and hug him and the urge to run outside and vomit. What the hell is Théo hiding? He knows about Alec and he knows how much I hate lying, so whatever it is it must be awful. My hands start to shake and I brace them against the wall. I take a couple of deep breaths, trying to banish the ice that has settled in my chest. I just need to stay calm, and go in and ask Théo point blank.

Just as I’m about to do that, the front door slams. Théo and Thomas look up, alarmed, and though his eyes widen in shock when he sees me standing there, Théo looks right past me to whoever just came in the door. When he meets my eyes again, his face drops. “Jay,” he whispers. “I swear I can explain.”

Before I can ask what, precisely, he wants to explain, I’m shoved out of the way by a tiny, black-haired girl wearing a pink dress and knee-high boots.

“ _Theo_ ,” she says, not bothering to even attempt to say it right. She leans against the wall across from me, neither apologizing for her rudeness nor acknowledging my existence in any way. “I told you not to leave without seeing me again.”

Théo is frozen. He doesn’t speak or move. Thomas, however, cuts across the kitchen in a blur of speed, to see for himself who’s causing such excitement.

“Riley?” he says, almost as stunned as Théo. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“This isn’t your house, Tommy,” she bites. “So that’s none of your damn business. I’m here to see Théo, and I’ve brought a visitor.”

Théo finally unfreezes. “Riley,” he pleads, his voice cracking. “Tell me you didn’t. Please, tell me you didn’t take him. That you didn’t break your court order.”

“I thought you’d be happy,” she pouts and slumps against the wall. I catch a glimpse of her profile, and notice that her eyes are midnight black. She has no iris – her eye is entirely pupil.

“Are you _high_?” Thomas interjects, looking disgusted.

Riley just glares at him and stumbles over to Théo, her heels making little clicks on the tiled floor. “Come on Theo,” she says, pulling on his hand. “Julien’s here to see his Daddy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh, shit.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for all the sweet words last time, my friends. it's always so lovely to hear from you! *hearts*

Riley is a girl. Riley is a _girl_. I’m so preoccupied with this fact that the _Daddy_ doesn’t register right away. I’m too busy thinking of Thomas and the look of incredulity on his face when I asked him if he’d ever had trouble refraining from flirting with Riley. _Obviously not_ , he’d said. Yeah, obviously not, because Riley is a fucking girl. I feel like such an idiot. The whole room flashes red, and I’m not sure if I’m more upset with Théo for hiding this from me, at Thomas for encouraging me to give Théo a chance when he knew – he fucking _knew_ – that this secret would stand between us, or at myself for ever thinking that I’d have a chance at a happy relationship.

My anger, however, is mitigated when I catch a glimpse of Théo’s face as Riley tugs him across the kitchen toward the front door. He looks dazed and frozen with fear, and despite the fact that part of me wants to storm out the door and never come back, there’s a larger part that’s compelled to see that horrible look banished from Théo’s face forever.

I make the decision to stay in an instant, and force myself to shove any personal feelings behind. I quickly scan the kitchen, taking in small details I hadn’t noticed before. Thomas looks angrier than I’ve ever seen him, and he’s slicing pieces of red pepper so thinly that I’m afraid he’s gong to get his fingers soon; Westley and Zola are huddled in the corner, clearly aware of the negative energy that’s immediately invaded the kitchen; and Théo, for the first time since I’ve met him, looks hopelessly and utterly defeated. He isn’t even protesting the fact that he’s being dragged bodily across the kitchen by a girl who’s half his size.

And Riley. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds to size her up. She has a slight sheen of sweat across her brow, dilated pupils, and raised capillaries beneath her nostrils that aren’t quite hidden by her expertly applied makeup: definite cocaine addict. I quickly scan for track marks and cracked teeth, and while she has neither, I can’t rule out other drugs without further evidence. I take in her Cartier watch, the light, flowing fabric of her dress, and the exact Jimmy Choos I bought Emma for Christmas, and I know that she’s wealthy.

I piece everything I know together – Théo’s hatred of lawyers, Riley’s clear addiction, Thomas’s immediate disgust coupled with Théo’s intense fear, and the fact that ten times out of ten a wealthy, drug-addicted mother has a better chance of retaining custody of a child than a foreign father who lives with another man – and realize that things could quickly turn to shit. Someone needs to take control of this situation, and it doesn’t look like it will be Thomas or Théo, so I don’t really have a choice.

“Thomas,” I snap, and everyone in the kitchen freezes. “Put down the fucking knife before you chop off your fingers.” The knife falls to the counter and Westley and Zola scurry from the room. “And you,” I say, pointing at Riley, “stop right there.” She just looks at me with glazed eyes, and stumbles back into Théo.

“Theo,” she says with a low, eerie laugh. Her voice is high and nasally and though I know that my judgment is significantly clouded by my own hurt and jealousy, I instantly dislike her. “Who is this asshole?”

Théo looks at me, and the pain is visible on his face. He looks so different from the snarky, self-important dick I’m utterly crazy about. He looks broken. “He’s,” Théo begins, but then hesitates.

Nausea sweeps through my body at that second of hesitation. I know that Théo isn’t hesitating because he doesn’t want to tell Riley – he’s hesitating because he really doesn’t know the answer.

“I’m his boyfriend,” I say with much more confidence than I actually feel. It’s clear that Théo and I have some issues to work through, and I’m not entirely sure that we’ll still be together once they’ve been sorted, but I’m not going to participate in some sort of public dumping.

I look at Théo, who’s finally starting to appear less like a wraith and more like a functioning human being. “Is there a child in her car?”

Théo nods, apparently still unable to form words, and I look back at Thomas. “It’s probably close to ninety degrees in a car right now. Go get the kid out and bring him in here.”

Riley looks like she’s about to speak, but Théo hisses something in French and she falls quiet.

“What kind of custody agreement do you two have?” I ask as Thomas hurries out of the house.

“I get visitation every two weeks,” Théo says quietly. “Supervised, with Riley’s parents. I stay in a hotel near their house.”

“And Riley?” I prompt.

“She lives there with them,” Théo says. “Unlimited visitation, but not custody. But she’s not allowed there for those weekends, Jay, I swear – ”

“I’m not interested in that,” I snap, feeling a little satisfaction when Théo visibly cringes. “Is she allowed unsupervised custody?”

“No.”

“Is she allowed to remove the child from his Grandparents’ home?”

“No,” Théo says, anger finally bubbling up. “She’s not.” He glares at Riley, who is looking at me like I spit something particularly nasty in her hair.

I ignore the look and focus my attention solely on Théo. “Call the police,” I say. “Report what’s happened and tell them to come here right away. Then, as soon as you hang up, call Riley’s parents and tell them what’s happened.”

Théo, who will never take orders from anyone, just whips out his phone and starts dialing. Riley – with rapidly constricting pupils and hands that are starting to twitch – swipes at Théo’s hand in an attempt to wrest his phone out of his grasp. “Don’t you call the fucking cops!” she spits. “I’ll call the lawyers! I’ll tell them what you’ve been getting up to with your _uppity fucking boyfriend_ ,” – she sneers the word – “and make sure that you don’t see Julien ever again.”

Théo actually hesitates and I walk forward to put myself between the two of them. “I am a lawyer,” I say. I refrain from adding on _you crazy bitch_ because I don’t want to give her any fodder to feed to police who will more than likely come in with preconceived notions. I turn to Théo. “And I’m assuming that your sexual orientation was known to the judge when he made the ruling?”

I reach out and place my hand on Théo’s cheek. He recoils as if my touch is painful, but I push away the influx of feelings. Feelings will only interfere with what we have to get done. Feelings will have to wait until later. “They can’t do anything to you,” I insist, shoving my hand in my pocket so that I don’t reach out again. “Just make the call. Preferably somewhere quiet.”

As Théo rushes out of the room, Riley makes a move to follow.

“You can follow him in there,” I say, steeling my voice so that it echoes through the spacious kitchen. “But if you touch him again or interfere, I’ll do everything I can to make sure that _you’ll_ be the one to never see your son again.”

Perhaps because she’s a little more lucid, Riley takes my advice and stays put – well, she stays in the kitchen at least. She obviously knows her way around, as she quickly puts together a glass of milk and grabs a tray of cookies from the cupboard. She whips out a tiny mirror from within the giant purse she’s flung on the table, and reapplies some of her smudged makeup. She also draws an elegant shawl from the purse and throws it over her shoulders. With her newly-applied lipstick, classy outfit, and snack, she looks as harmless as kitten and twice as cute. I grit my teeth and try not to simmer at her tiny smirk. This girl may be a psychopathic drug addict, but she’s a _smart_ psychopathic drug addict.

Thankfully, I’m saved from having to decide what to say or do by the arrival of Thomas and the baby.

“Had the decency to at least crack the windows, eh Riley?” Thomas sneers when he enters the kitchen. The kids is sleeping soundly, cuddling into Thomas’s shoulder. “At least your son ranks highly enough to get the treatment you’d give a dog.”

Riley doesn’t even look up to glance at her son and make sure he’s all right. “Shut up, Tommy,” she snaps. “I don’t need parenting advice from a high-school drop-out who’s too pathetic to move out of his best friend’s house.” She looks up and grins, and one of her top teeth pokes out over her lip. I’m sure it’s something that Théo found endearing at some point, but I think it just makes her look like a hungry hyena.

Thomas doesn’t seem fazed in the least, and I get the feeling that the schism between them far precedes any legal trouble to do with Julien. “And I don’t register insults from coke-heads whose makeup looks like it was inspired by Pennywise the Clown.”

Riley just rolls her eyes, but I notice that she surreptitiously checks her makeup using the back of her phone.

“Where’s Théo?” Thomas takes a seat across from Riley, but his attention is focused entirely on me.

“Right here.”

Théo steps into the kitchen, tucking his phone into his pocket. He takes a seat in one of the remaining chairs. He’s facing me, but I can’t see that his entire body is gravitating toward the small bundle in Thomas’s arms. The kid’s face is hidden, but the pudgy limbs and soft, curly hair doesn’t look much different from other babies I’ve seen. Thomas wordlessly hands the baby over, and unfortunately the jostling wakes him up. I cringe, ready for a wail, but he remains quiet. He blinks open his huge brown eyes, and actually _scowls_ at Thomas. I try to stop myself from reacting, but a small gasp makes its way out. I can’t help it; the gesture is just so overwhelmingly _Théo_. The boy, once he’s decided that there’s nothing to hold his interest, snuggles back into his father to continue his nap.

“He looks like you,” I say to Théo by way of explanation. He doesn’t answer, just hugs the boy tightly to his chest. “What did the cops say?”

“They’re calling Riley’s parents,” Théo says bitterly. “Unless they report that Riley’s kidnapped Julien, then there’s nothing they can do. I can file a report to our case manager, and he’ll let me know about the repercussions of what Riley’s done.”

Riley, in a flurry of texting, disappears from the kitchen for a moment, with Thomas glaring after her as if he’d like nothing more than to take her out back and drown her in the ocean. “And the drugs?” he asks, lip curling in disgust.

“Said he couldn’t run a drug test for every jealous ex-boyfriend who called the station.” Théo sighs, but doesn’t move. Instead, he remains unnaturally still, running his fingers gently through his son’s curls.

Now that the initial work is done, I’m starting to feel a little drained. Drained and out of place, with this kitchen full of people with a complicated history that has nothing to do with me. What’s more, watching Théo run his hands through Julien’s hair with such casual intimacy is sparking feelings in me I would rather keep dampened.

“Daddy is on his way to pick up Julien,” Riley says breezily, storming back into the kitchen and interrupting my thoughts. If not for the fact that I witnessed it myself, I would never believe that she was the same girl who barged in here less than thirty minutes ago. She struts past me without a second glance, and leans over Théo to brush her lips against her son’s hair. Julien stirs a little in Théo’s arms, but he doesn’t wake. “Bye Théo,” she says, leaning down to press her lips to the corner of Théo’s mouth. She raises her eyes and looks directly at me, grinning her feral-hyena grin. Trapped by his sleeping son, Théo has no choice but to let the kiss happen. He glares at her furiously as she walks away, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Tired, hurt, and seething with the sort of jealousy I’d never believed myself capable of feeling, I decide that it’s time for me to go as well. “I’m just going to leave,” I announce as soon as I hear Riley’s car pull out of the driveway.

Théo, torn between wanting to stop me and not wanting to wake Julien, makes a semi-jerk toward my side of the kitchen. “Jay, please.”

“Just come over when Riley’s parents leave.” I call Westley and scoop him up into my arms when he comes barreling down the hall, tongue hanging out and drool flying everywhere. I head for the door, pausing to look at Théo one last time. “We’ll talk then.”

\--

It takes a few hours for Théo to arrive. When he does, I’m elbow-deep in soapy water and all the appliances in my kitchen have been moved away from the walls so that I can scrub behind them. I don’t even realize that Théo’s in the house until I hear a soft, “Oh, Jay,” from behind me.

I throw my full-length rubber gloves in the soapy water along with the washcloth and walk with Théo to the living room. He takes a seat on the sofa, perhaps hoping that I will be forced to sit beside him, but I take the chair opposite instead.

Théo starts to speak, and I know he’s going to apologize, so I interrupt.

“If you apologize I’m going to lose my mind.” My hands are shaking with the effort of holding back, and the inside of my mouth feels raw from the constant chewing. “I can’t deal with an apology right now, and frankly, I’m not in a very forgiving mood.”

“So then why did you ask me to come over?” Théo’s voice lacks any of its usual fire, and with his poor posture and limp hair, he looks small and afraid. He looks up and my stomach twists when I see that his eyes are bright. “Did you ask me here to break things off?”

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. “How about you just tell me the whole story and we’ll go from there?”

He does. It takes the better part of an hour, and Théo starts with when he first met Riley and ends with the court’s final decision. Riley, who had continued to get high throughout her entire pregnancy, and was the reason that Julien was born narcotic-dependent and had to spend weeks in the Neonatal ICU, was still granted more parental visitation rights than Théo all because of his sexual orientation. Théo is angry as he talks, and I’m mostly disgusted that things can be so backward. Whatever my feelings toward Théo at the moment, it’s clear that he adores his son. He deserves better than the shoddy justice system has given him. The entire situation makes me sick and angry, and I want nothing more than to move over to the sofa and comfort Théo for everything that’s happened to him.

That’s why I picked the chair.

Instead, I just ask, as calmly as I can, “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

“That I had a kid?” Théo laughs and the sound is low and bitter – close to the way he used to sound before we started dating. “Because _that_ would have gone over well.”

Anger pricks at my calm, and I have to force myself to keep from yelling. “You don’t know what I would have done.”

Théo’s face crumples and he shifts a little closer. “You’re right,” he says. “I didn’t know. But I did know that you could barely handle a couple of unwashed dishes, and that you thought that dogs were as much responsibility as you wanted. I knew that you were barely ready for what we did have, and that pushing anything else on you seemed impossible.”

“So you just wait for me to find out like this? Do you have any idea how hurt I was when she showed up? I didn’t even know that you were bisexual, for Christ’s sake. How do you date someone for _months_ and not even know their fucking sexual orientation?”

Théo slumps back into the soft fabric of the sofa, refusing to meet my eyes. “I’m sorry, Jay.”

“I told you not to fucking apologize! I don’t want your apology. I want a boyfriend who’s honest with me. Who doesn’t string me along for months while he runs off to play house with his ex-girlfriend.”

“It’s not like that!” Théo gets up from the sofa and walks over to my chair, perching on the side. “I swear it wasn’t like that.”

“I don’t care,” I spit, getting up myself. “It still fucking feels like that.”

“I was scared, Jay.” Théo moves forward, wringing his hands to the point of painfulness. “Is that so hard to believe? I wanted you for so long and when you finally seemed to want me back I was terrified of fucking it up.”

I look away, refusing to let his open hurt influence my decisions. I did this once before – forgave the person I loved at the expense of my better judgment – and it was a disaster. “Do you think you were the only one was scared, Théo? Opening myself up again was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. But I never once lied to you – not even when it was hard. I trusted you enough to be _honest_ about what I was feeling.”

Théo’s face twists – shame and grief twisting his delicate features. “Well we’re not all like that, Jay. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that not many people are like you.”

Though his words sound complimentary, I see them for what they really are: an excuse. My irritation flares, and I’m so goddamn sick of people using their insecurities to try to placate me. To try to explain away their misdeeds. “You know what, Théo? That’s really fucking unfair. I know that sometimes the truth is hard, but it’s also necessary.”

I think of all the moments when this could have come out – all the times I prodded, too casually, about what he was doing with his time away. And then I think of Théo’s careful questions about children and messes and how sad he sounded on the phone when I said I wasn’t interested in being a father, and my thoughts are just tangle of anger and doubt and vulnerability. I think of moments spent with Théo under the airy blankets at San Ysidro, lying awake and thinking that this could finally be _it_. Thinking that I had finally found someone who understood me.

Turns out, all I’ve found is another liar.

I stand up, crossing my arms as Théo follows suit. “If our time together meant anything to you, then this would never have happened.”

Théo’s face crumbles. “It meant _everything_ , Jay,” he says, his voice hitching. “That’s why I couldn’t bear to give it up.” He scrambles, tripping over his words in an attempt to figure out what to say next. “Jay, _please_ – ”

Suddenly, I don’t want to hear anything else he has to say. Whether it’s another apology or another excuse, I don’t want to hear it. “Just leave, Théo,” I say, walking back to the kitchen.

“Jay, please,” he repeats, following me out of the living room.

“Just leave!” I shout, finally snapping. “I need some time, and anything you say right now is only going to make things worse.” I bend over and pull my rubber gloves back on, wincing at the water that squelches between my fingers.

“And tell Thomas not to bother coming over here either,” I add as Théo approaches the door. “I don’t want to see either of you for a few days.”

Théo doesn’t say anything. He shuts the door quietly behind him when he leaves.

I attack the dirty baseboards with fury. I wish I could call Emma, but she’s still not out of the hospital, and this is the last thing she needs to deal with. Thomas is out, because I’m just as upset with him as I am with Théo. That leaves…no one. There’s no one I can call, no one I can turn to for advice. My mother would have a field day with this. She’d have me on a plane to New York with the intention of “casually running into” Alec within hours.

Thinking about Alec makes me even more upset. My arm burns as I scrape at the layer of dirt that has been camping out behind my stove, and my heart burns at the thought of Alec, safe and happy with Magnus fucking Bane in New York. Go figure, he takes off with a stripper and they live happily ever after, and I get stuck with a contrary Frenchman who has a secret love child.

I scrub harder, losing myself in the burn of my tired muscles, and try to block out the fact that I _knew_ this would happen. I knew that this couldn’t last. I knew that Théo would end up breaking my heart.

\--

I decide to take a trip out of town. First I think about heading back to Vegas to visit Emma and the baby, but I know that she needs some time to adjust before she’s bombarded with visitors. Plus, I want to go somewhere new, somewhere that isn’t bogged down by the memory of Alec or anyone else.

I settle on San Francisco. I’ve never been there before, and the northern climate will provide some relief from the unrelenting heat of the south. I fly up and rent a car, and spend a couple of days exploring the sites. I eat at nice restaurants and shop at nice stores and even pick out a few more gifts for Emma and the baby. I have them wrapped and shipped directly to her door.

On the third day, the reality of why I’m taking this vacation starts to creep back in, and I decide to go out. I mean, it’s almost criminal to go to San Francisco as a gay man and _not_ go out. I find a quiet, classy bar, and set about drowning myself in whisky. I get a few looks – which I’m not going to lie, makes me feel a little bit better about the sad state of my life – but it’s not until I’ve been there a few hours that someone is brave enough to actually approach me.

He’s tall, blonde, gorgeous, and – best of all – looks _nothing_ like Théo or Alec. He flirts confidently and talks about his job as a writer for an online publication, and I try to convince myself that I could walk out of this bar with him. That I can be that kind of guy. The kind who doesn’t need attachments or meaningful sex. The kind who lets someone worship his body and doesn’t think about the repercussions. The kind who rips condoms open with his teeth and licks his way into another guy’s ass. Maybe I’d let this guy eat me out. I could be loud and dirty and pornographic. I could do everything that I’ve ever been afraid to do. Everything that’s seemed impossible or _wrong_. I could be like Alec or Théo and carry this secret along with me, until the opportune moment that I could use it to ruin someone’s happiness completely.

Except when the guy turns to me with a smooth _you want to get out of here_? I just shake my head. “I’ve got a boyfriend,” I reply, finally getting up from the bar to make my way back to the hotel. “Thanks for the offer.”

\--

Not three hours have passed since I pulled into my driveway when I get a text from Thomas asking to come over. Since I can’t really put off seeing him forever and he’s promised that Théo is still at work, I decide that it’s best to just go. If I don’t, I know he’ll just be over pounding on the door in minutes. I don’t have to pick Westley up from doggy day care for a few hours, and I figure that’s enough time to work through this mess with Thomas.

When I push open the door and walk to the living room, I don’t find Thomas, but Théo, who is sitting in his chair, smoking a cigarette. There’s an ashtray full of butts sitting on the table next to him, and the pack is open so that he can easily grab another once he’s finished.

Enraged, both at Thomas’s deception and Théo’s backslide, I stride right over to him and pluck the cigarette from his mouth and throw into the ashtray.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I demand, waiting for Théo to get over his shock and answer.

“Me? What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping you from getting lung cancer.”

Théo grabs the packet of cigarettes and taps a single smoke into the palm of his hand. I grab it and fling it across the room. The box follows quickly behind.

“Jesus, Jay!” Théo slumps back into his chair, signature scowl at the ready. “What are you doing here?”

“Thomas told me you were gone.”

Théo’s expression darkens. “ _Thomas_ told you,” he says. “Well, Thomas is gone out to the beach, and you’re welcome to go join him if that’s what you want.”

“What I want,” I reply, taking the smelly ashtray and moving it to the opposite side of the room, “is for you to be around in sixty years.”

“Why?” Théo asks, his anger twisting into melancholy. “It’s not like you’re going to be there.”

I don’t answer and Théo laughs. “Jay, with nothing to say?”

“I have a lot of things to say,” I reply. “Just none that end with either of us very happy.”

“Do I look particularly happy to you right now?”

Again, I have no need to answer.

“I don’t know why Thomas even bothered. It’s not like you’re going to forgive me – you’re too held up with everything that shit Alec Lightwood did to ever give another guy a fair chance.”

“Fuck you,” I hiss. “You do not get to turn this around on me. You kept a huge part of your life hidden from me, and you just expect me to be okay with it? You have a fucking _son_ Théo. A child! You kept that from me for months, and now you’re going to act like I’m the bad guy? Like this is all my fault?”

“Did you even stop to consider that this isn’t anyone’s fault?” Théo gets up so that we’re face to face. “I kept Julien from you because I knew that you weren’t ready. I knew that it was the quickest way to lose you and that was the last thing that I wanted.”

“Okay, more of this _i_ _t was for my own good_ bullshit. Well then, I guess all is forgiven. If you were just sneaking around living this double life behind my back for my own good, I guess we can just get back to our regularly scheduled relationship.”

“God, you can be such a selfish _asshole_.”

Théo brushes past me to fetch his cigarettes, but I thread my fingers through his, and he skids to a halt. My pulses races at finally touching the smooth skin that overlies his wrist, but I push the feeling away.

“And you can be such a self-righteous prick.”

Théo yanks his hand back, throwing me off balance. “Fuck you, Jay.”

I pull him forward as I step back, and as my back connects with the wall he slams into my chest. His breath comes out in a short gasp, cutting off his speech.

“Fuck you,” I reply, close enough to feel his racing heart.

“Fuck me,” he all but snarls, tearing so hard at my t-shirt that I’m sure he’s going to rip it off. “Fuck me, you self-absorbed dick.”

I rush forward and capture his mouth in mine, ensuring that he can’t speak another word. We scramble at each other’s clothes; pieces come off in a flurry of movement. When my shirt gets tossed across the room, Théo rakes his nails down my back, shivering as I hiss in pain. He mumbles an insult under his breath, but it disappears when I hoist him up by the legs and slam him against the wall. He wraps his legs around me, unable to do anything but whimper as I bite across his neck, taking none of my usual care. I leave red marks across his throat and bite into his shoulder hard enough that my teeth dent the skin. He just moans and digs his nails in deeper, thrusting up against my stomach in a desperate bid for friction.

Nearly insane with the small whimpering noises Théo is making, I lift him away from the wall and throw him to the floor. He hits the ground with a thud and a curse, but before I can hear another colorful insult about my own self-absorption, I have his pants around his ankles and his cock in my mouth. Any protests are lost as Théo wraps his fingers in my hair, tugging harder than he ever has before. I set a relentless pace, moaning whenever Théo’s tugs become just little too much, and swallowing everything when he finally finishes.

I barely have time to collect my thoughts before Théo tugs me to the sofa and grabs a bottle of lube and a condom from within the coffee table. I want to ask what the fuck it’s doing there, but before I can, Théo has himself slicked up and is settling down on my cock. I fall back as he rides me, lost in the warmth and the heat and empty of anything but an all-encompassing want. The feeling builds, quick and hot, and spreads from my stomach to my entire body, until eventually Théo’s pace becomes almost exquisitely painful. He leans in as he realizes how close I am, and sinks his teeth into the junction of my neck and shoulder. I yelp and then collapse, my orgasm blocking out any thoughts that may have been plaguing me when I first arrived.

For the briefest of seconds I forget that Théo and I are fighting at all, and with a tenderness that is completely incongruous with the sex we just had, I draw him into my chest, kissing the sweat from his cheek.

He tenses, and all the harsh words come flooding back, completely ruining my post-coital bliss. “Please don’t pull away,” he whispers. His voice is open and raw and he wriggles up so that we’re face to face. “Please, just give me five minutes to pretend I haven’t fucked everything up.”

Since pulling away seems like the most acute form of torture imaginable, I pull Théo close and trace my fingers along his back, enjoying the way he shivers with pleasure. He presses closer, and runs his lips against my collarbone as I continue my ministrations. His mouth is warm and wet, and the light pressure ignites a disproportionate heat in my stomach. Truthfully, my heart aches at the thought of leaving; I want to just stay here, like this, for the rest of the day. For the rest of my life. But that’s impossible. I know I won’t be able to forget what happened. And I don’t think I’m capable of forgiveness anymore.

“Jay, I need to tell you something.” Théo moves up again, resting his head against my arm and looking steadily at me. He moves in and presses his lips gently against mine – again, a stark contrast to the rough sex we just finished. “I love you,” he whispers softly when he pulls away.

“Don’t,” he adds as soon as I start to move. “This has nothing to do with what happened with Riley. This has nothing to do with our fight or the fact that you’re not sure if we’re even a couple anymore.” He smiles sadly, and I know that pulling away from him is going to kill me. “Not everything is a negotiation. You don’t owe me anything and I don’t expect this to change your mind. I just wanted you to know, in case I never get the chance to tell you. I love you, Jay.” He kisses me a second time, then a third. Each one feels like a story I don’t know how to interpret. They feel like a promise I’ll never be able to keep. “ _Je t’aime, mon amour_ ,” Théo murmurs lowly. “ _Je t’aime tellement.”_

When I don’t answer Théo starts to pull away. Before he can, I wrap my arms around him tightly. “Do you want to get your son back?” I ask.

Théo blinks as if he hasn’t heard the question correctly. “I – of course I do.”

“I have a colleague – someone who graduated from Harvard the year before I did. He specializes in cases like yours, and I think I could call in a favor and get him to come out from New York.”

“You’d do that?” Théo asks quietly. “For me?”

 _I’d do anything for you_ , I want to say. Instead, I just pull away and begin the long process of blocking off my heart. “I didn’t sign up for a family, Théo. You were right when you said that knowing about Julien would overwhelm me. That’s not what I want. But if it’s what you want, then I’ll help you. Even if it means the end of us, I’ll help you get your son back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah, that was heavy. sorry for all the angst (although, not really). hope you all enjoyed :)


	9. Chapter Nine

I leave the next day for New York City to meet with Carson, after a quick phone call to make sure that this is what Théo wants. When he answers the phone his voice is sleep-stupid and scratchy from the previous night’s cigarettes and the need to crawl in bed with him is so strong that I actually feel dizzy. I can smell his shampoo and the Listerine strips he keeps on his bedside table for the morning and I can feel the sharp scratch of his stubble against my cheeks and it’s absolutely overwhelming. For the millionth time I wish I could go back to sleep and wake up in a world where there’s no Riley and no secret child, and though I know Théo would probably hate me for thinking such a thing, I know I’ve always been a selfish bastard.

I call Carson’s secretary on my way to the airport and leave my name. By the time I’m in the terminal she’s called me back with an appointment for the following day. I can only pray that he doesn’t have anything huge coming up. Unfortunately, just _being_ a lawyer who advocates for gay rights makes you a valuable commodity; being the _best_ means that you’re nearly impossible to hire. As soul heir to his grandmother’s fortune Théo could easily pay quadruple whatever anyone else could offer, but unfortunately for us Carson has always been fueled by a sense of righteous purpose rather than a lust for money. In other time I would view that as a quality to be admired, but now it’s mostly getting in my way.

I spend most of the flight on edge, and snap at a cute flight attendant when he keeps coming back to offer me complimentary snacks. I find his number written on the inside of a napkin and earn a dark glare when I tear it in half as he makes his twenty-fifth trip down the aisle. The entire ordeal puts me in a foul mood, and I’m so flustered that I forget my mother ordered me a car and leave the airport in a taxi.

Thankfully – but not surprisingly – my mother isn’t home when I get there, so I have time to call the airport and tell the driver to head home. Her fridge is well stocked, so I grab a beer and some leftover pizza from Louis’ down the street and take a seat at her massive table to eat. I look around the room for some sign of what my mother has been up to, but as usual the place is immaculate. There are a couple of new paintings adorning the walls – old ones put in storage until they can be auctioned off for charity, no doubt – but there are no scribbled post-its or new photographs to give me any indication that my mother has been existing outside her office.

I slide off my chair and flip over the island like I used to as a teenager, skidding to a halt in front of the spare drawer to paw around for a bottle opener I can use for my beer. There are envelopes and electricity bills and spare bits of change rattling around in the drawer, and once I lift them out so that I can get at the cutlery underneath, a glossy photograph falls to the floor. The paper is thick and heavy, and there’s a small message written underneath.

It’s a wedding photo.

A wedding photo of Alec and Magnus.

Alec, as always, looks beautiful. His hair (obviously done by someone else) looks lush and effortless and his blue eyes are vibrant and happy. Magnus, with his honey-colored skin and flawless eye makeup is perhaps even more attractive, and is looking at Alec as if he still can’t quite believe that he’s real.

As much as I loved him, and as devastated as I was when he left, I don’t know that I ever looked at Alec like that.

I wait for the flood of emotion – for that inevitable punch in the gut at seeing the man I’d been set to marry standing next to someone else – but it doesn’t come. Instead, my eyes well up as I think of Chateau d’Yquem – a place I’ve never even visited, but googled extensively when Théo was at work and I was sure he’d never catch me – and of how Théo’s throaty accent would sound as he stumbled through the same words that have been said by millions of men before him. I look at the love on Magnus’s and Alec’s faces, and I break down not because I want to replace Alec’s husband, but because all I want is to spend the rest of my life looking at Théo the way he looks at Alec.

I hear the click of a key and the turning of the lock and just manage to shove the picture and pile of mail back in the drawer before my mother steps through the door.

“James,” she says warmly as she places her coat and scarf on the hook next to the door. She walks toward me and wraps me in a hug.

Though we haven’t spoken much over the past year, I admit that part of me wants to just break down on my mother’s shoulder. Instead I just fan my hands across her back, feeling the points at which her bones protrude from the thin fabric of her shirt.

“You’re much too thin,” I say, drawing back to look at her properly. The last year has certainly taken its toll; though she looks as neat and put together as usual, her hair is a shade too bright, meaning she’s taken to dyeing it, and there are spidery wrinkles radiating from the corners of her eyes and mouth. She _does_ look too thin, and completely worn out.

“You look marvelous,” she says, brushing away the comment as she does everything she doesn’t want to talk about. “The California coast is agreeing with you, I see.” She pushes my curls back from my forehead and holds my chin in her hand, and I feel as if she’s reading my mind.

“But something’s wrong,” she proclaims, her eyes narrowing. It’s not a question – my mother never uses questions when she knows she’s right. She guides me over to the luxurious sofa she’s recently added to the living room, and settles closely beside me.

“It’s the new partner, isn’t it?” She raises an eyebrow and I fight the urge to tell her for the tenth time how much I hate the word _partner_. We exist in the legal world and _partners_ are the people you work with, not the people with whom you spend your life. My mother, however, turns up her nose at the word boyfriend. She thinks it’s inferior and borderline pejorative, belittling and minimizing the connection two men can share. I dearly want to tell her that she can chime in the moment she actually transforms into a gay man, but I know she’s only trying to help. She’s always fought for me, even when it meant alienating voters, and I know I have to love and appreciate all the facets of her personality.

“Emma,” I mutter darkly as I think of the best way to present what’s happening with Théo. Lying is obviously not an option, but I don’t even consider evasion, which has worked wonders in the past. Unfortunately, when my mother wants to know something, she will get her answers. I figure being upfront will be the least painful course of action.

“Yes, your sister did tell me a little about your _Théo_. French, James?” She says _French_ the same way some people would say _flesh eating fungus_. She continues before I can call her out on her snobbery. “Though your sister did assure me that he came from a good family, that he grew up on a vineyard.”

“He grew up on a farm actually,” I correct. “He had a pet goat that he used to feed from a bottle in the kitchen.”

“Really, James,” my mother scolds. “Do be serious. It’s hard enough to adjust to all this French frippery without you making off-color jokes.”

I don’t bother to tell her that the story is true – and frankly, fucking adorable – because I’m honestly afraid that she’ll have an aneurysm. “So you’ve finally given up on Alec, then?”

A shadow crosses my mother’s face, and I can tell that she’s debating telling me about the wedding. She doesn’t mention it, merely rearranges her face into a hard mask that is a hundred times more familiar to me than her smile. “I’ll admit that at first I didn’t believe that Alexander was capable of such duplicity, but I’ve been wrong before. Besides – ” she takes her hand and places it over my own,” – I find it quite easy to give up on anybody who doesn’t realize your worth, darling.”

My throat tightens traitorously, but before the moment can become overly sentimental, my mother dives right back into her line of questioning. “So what’s happened then? I’ve been told you have a meeting with Carson Sutherland tomorrow – has someone been giving the two of you trouble?”

I don’t know if it’s my amazement at the fact that my mother knows about a meeting that was scheduled mere hours ago, or the involuntary squeeze of my heart when she practically growls at the idea of someone causing trouble for me, but I spill the entire story. I tell her everything, from Théo’s deception, to Riley’s grand entrance, to the plan I have for the meeting with Carson tomorrow. After I’ve finished she sits there for a few minutes, saying nothing, and I feel a chill as the nervous sweat that lines the back of my shirt starts to cool.

“You’re doing the right thing, of course,” she finally says, her voice cool and clipped.

“Which thing?”

“Breaking things off, of course.” She stares at me, unblinking, and then shifts slightly. “This Riley woman,” she sniffs. “If you stay with your Théo she will become a permanent part of your life. Even if you disregard the lying and sneaking around or the fact that you’ve never been interested in children, the truth remains that you will never be able to escape this woman. She’ll always be there, hovering at the edge of your life like an insect that refuses to die.”

“You didn’t want kids,” I say morosely, ignoring her comment about Riley. “And you changed your mind.”

“I did,” she says, nodding. “I struggled through two horrible pregnancies and what seemed like endless labor to bring two beautiful, brilliant children into the world, and I wouldn’t trade that for anything. That experience made me into a completely different person –”

“And, what, you think that because I’m not Julien’s biological parent that I can never love him? That Théo and I could never make it work?”

“Oh, James.” My mother reaches out and rests her hand against my cheek. “I’m sure that you could, but that’s not my point.” She draws away and settles her hands into her lap. “I loved your father so much when we were married. I had the perfect job, the perfect apartment, and finally, the perfect husband. It seemed like I had the perfect life. Then, after Emma was born, I realized that I had been young and utterly foolish. When you were born I found it laughable that I thought I had loved your father back then. Once I saw what we were capable of _together_ , of what we had _made together_ , that old love seemed like nothing more than a schoolyard dalliance. Having a child together binds two people to one another, creates a bond that can never be broken. No matter how much you love this Théo, or how much you wish things were different, the fact remains that he will always be connected to his son’s mother.”

“She’s a drug addict, Mother! She’s done nothing but make Théo miserable and make Julien’s life harder. She’s not even allowed to be alone with her own son, for Christ’s sake. No offence, but I don’t really think that your two situations are comparable.”

“And what if she changes?” My mother’s voice hardens, and I can _feel_ the strength of her argument, like a wind that sweeps over the room. “What happens if she loses this case that you’re mounting, and that’s the catalyst she needs to turn her life around? What if she shows up in three months, or six, or even a year, clean and reformed and ready to start over? What do you think Théo will want for his son? What do you think will be easiest for a young boy: living happily and peacefully with his parents or moving between houses every second weekend and being teased by the kids at school about his two fathers? If Théo has to make that choice, do you think he’ll be thinking of you or his son?”

She puts her hands on my shoulders, drawing me a little closer. “I would give anything to make the world a different place for you, James. I will fight until my last breath to make it a more accepting place for you to live. I will do everything I can to make your life better, because that’s what parents do – they put their children first. They always put their children first.”

\--

I don’t get a whole lot of sleep after the conversation with my mother, and what sleep I do manage to get is plagued by dreams of Riley and Théo reuniting while I watch from across the beach. It takes two cups of coffee, each with a couple of extra shots of espresso, to get me ready for the meeting. Luckily, Carson’s ten o’clock runs late, and I have some time to come down from my jittery coffee-high and appear somewhat like a functioning human being when his secretary ushers me toward his office.

The room is warm and inviting and completely unlike the office of any of my colleagues. There are pictures of his wife and twin boys arranged neatly along his desk, and a graduation picture of him with his moms right beside his diploma. The view from his window is spectacular, and the room is bright and inviting.

None of this makes me feel any better.

In fact, I think the entire problem is that I’m not sure which will make me feel worse: being told that Carson is too busy to take on this case and having to face the look of disappointment of Théo’s face when I break the news or being told that Carson would be happy to help and knowing that Théo could have full custody of his son in a couple of months. I wonder if he really knew what kind of person I was, would Théo take back the words he whispered into my lips the night before I left Los Angeles? Probably.

The sound of a door opening pulls me from my thoughts, and Carson’s face lights up when I meet his eyes. “Jay,” he says in greeting, forgoing a handshake to pull me into a hug. “It’s been a long time.”

“A few years,” I agree. I’ve only seen him once or twice after graduation, at various fundraisers, but I know he keeps in touch with my mother. People with the same cause tend to stick together, especially in this world.

“My secretary said you had something important to discuss,” he says, gesturing for me to take a seat across from him. He pulls out an Iron Man writing pad and looks up at me, vaguely apologetic. “The boys insisted that it would help me win my cases.”

_That’s ridiculous_ , I want to say. Instead, I just smile and wonder how the hell people can change so much over such a short period of time. “I have a friend in California who needs help,” I say, my tongue tripping over the word friend. As if my own body is rebelling against the classification of Théo as anything less than what he is: the most important person in my life.

Carson uncaps his pen – Captain America, this time – and presses the tip to his writing pad. “What kind of problem are we talking about?”

Now that the moment is here, I don’t even hesitate. I just think of Théo’s arms, wrapped lovingly around his son as he sat at his kitchen table; of the look of fear in his eyes when Riley stumbled into his house, stoned out of her mind; and of the way he told me he loved me, softly and sweetly, wanting nothing in return. I know that I don’t deserve that love, and I’m not even sure that if all this hadn’t happened I’d be even _capable_ of reciprocating those kinds of feelings, but I know that I could never betray Théo like that. I could never keep him from the one thing he wants more than anything else. So I start from the beginning, and I tell Carson everything.

The talk is a lot more technical than the one I had with my mother. Carson wants to know Judges names, court dates, and specifics about the night Riley burst onto the scene. Luckily, Théo, in all his Lit-nerd glory, kept extensive records of all court proceedings, and I have a neat document to hand over to Carson. The meeting lasts long into the day, and by the time we break for lunch I know Carson is going to take the case. He glances occasionally at the picture of his twins, and I find myself grateful to the little buggers, even if they’ve completely annihilated their father’s sense of style.

I stick around for a few days so that I can work out a rudimentary schedule with Carson. He’s anxious to get things started, so he makes plans to come to California with his whole family as soon as he sorts out any licensure issues. His wife, Lila, who’s a lovely woman and (from what I can tell from a single dinner at her home) apparently endowed with super-powers, can think of nothing more exciting than moving across the country with two toddlers for a few months.

I call Théo and tell him the news as soon as Carson clears the move with Lila. I can tell he’s excited, but holding back because he’s talking to me. This small disconnect hurts more than I expected, so I quickly make an excuse to hang up. I spend the rest of the night mulling over his quiet _merci, Jay_ and wishing that nothing had changed.

\-- 

This time when I stumble through the door at five o’clock, there’s no Théo to greet me. I even make a little extra noise as I trample through the brush and slam my door shut, but there isn’t a peep from the house next door. Tired, disappointed, and angry with myself for even hoping he’d be here, I fall into bed completely dressed.

The room is flooded with light when I hear the light tapping of someone’s knuckles against my bedroom door.

“Théo?” I call, still hazy with sleep and obviously incoherent enough to hold out hope.

“Not quite.”

I rise, wiping my eyes slowly, and see Thomas leaning against the doorframe. He looks like hell, with dark circles under his eyes and his clothes in rumpled disarray.

“Can I come in?” His voice is small and low, and completely incongruous with the friend I’ve come to rely on so heavily over the past year. I feel a deep and all-encompassing flood of shame. Thomas has the hardest position of the three of us – caught between his two best friends – and I haven’t spared a single second over the past week to think about how he’s been handling any of this.

I pull back the blankets and pat the spot beside me. “Of course you can.”

Thomas crawls into my bed tentatively, lying on his back with his arms and legs kept carefully to himself. “Finally ready to talk to me, then?”

“I’m sorry I was such an asshole.” I move my hand over so that it rests on top of his, and his body shifts infinitesimally closer.

“Seems to be a recurring theme,” he says, his lips quirking up into a smile. “You being an arse and me forgiving you for it.”

“I’d like to say that it won’t happen again, but you know how I am with lying.”

Thomas finally turns over on his side, propping his head up with his hand. “You’re far too noble for your own good, Princess. You’ve got to learn the value of a proper white lie.”

“I don’t think I can,” I reply, suddenly serious. “Because if I started lying to you, then I’d start lying to myself. And if I start lying to myself, I don’t know that I’ll ever stop.”

“He didn’t mean to lie to you, you know.” Thomas shifts so that his head is resting against mine, his black hair mixing with my blonde curls. I know that Thomas has both of our interests at heart, but I don’t think that he can truly appreciate the betrayal I felt when I finally found out the truth.

“Doesn’t change the fact that he did.”

“He loves you, you know.”

“I know, he told me.”

Thomas actually seems a little shocked at that one, so Théo must not have told him. I wonder how our relationship has changed their friendship. Hopefully not enough that it can’t return to what it was before. Thomas flips over to his stomach and looks at me, his blue eyes unreadable. “What did you say?”

I look away, concentrating at a crack in the tile at the corner of the room. “I told him I’d help him get his son back.” Thomas doesn’t say anything for a minute, so I can only assume that Théo’s already told him about Carson’s involvement.

“Do you love him?” he asks eventually.

“I told him I’d help him get his son back,” I repeat, feeling completely drained.

Thomas must notice, because he shifts a little closer and nudges until I turn toward the wall. He pulls me back, so that my head is cradled against his neck and my back is pressed flat against his chest. He doesn’t make any lewd comments or drop any unnecessary innuendos. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all. He just runs his hand through my hair, slowly and surely, hugging me tight when my body starts to shake and my breaths come in short pants. He doesn’t stop when my breathing finally evens out, and I fall asleep comforted by his gentle touch.

\--

I don’t know how long I’m asleep, but it seems like no time at all when I’m violently pushed from bed by a scrambling Thomas, my ears buzzing with the sound of harshly spat-out French. I had no idea that French could even sound so violent.

“What the _fuck_ is your problem, Tommy?” I hear Théo spit from his place in the doorway.

He doesn’t look much better than Thomas, I notice when I’m able to get my head clear and off the ground. He has bright splotches of pink on each cheek and is shaking with unrestrained fury. “You need to get the hell out of here, now,” he hisses lowly.

Thomas, who looks torn between shame and sadness, doesn’t say anything in retaliation. He just scrambles for his socks, which he must have kicked off while I was sleeping.

“Thomas, this is my house,” I bite out, sparing a glare for Théo. “Nobody can make you leave but me.”

Thomas pauses mid-movement, and ends up toppling backward with the sock poised to pull over his foot.

“And as for you,” I snarl, turning my full attention on Théo. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, barging in my house and throwing some kind of tantrum?”

“Sorry to interrupt,” Théo mutters darkly, matching my glare easily. “I came over here to make sure you got back from New York safely. I guess I should have assumed that someone would beat me to it.” He turns to storm out, but I dart quickly across the room and grab his hand before he can disappear down the stairs.

“Don’t think you can just barge in here and scare the shit out of me, scream your head off like some kind of deranged lunatic, and then storm off like Thomas and I have actually done something wrong!”

“Let go of me,” Théo barks, yanking his hand away from me. He stumbles a little and flushes bright red as he rights himself.

“I’m serious, Théo,” I say, steeling my resolve. “If you don’t walk back in this bedroom and have a sensible conversation, then I’m done. I refuse to be screamed at when I did nothing wrong.”

Théo glowers, but he doesn’t say anything. I turn and breathe a quick sigh of relief when I hear him follow closely behind.

“Now sit,” I order when he’s fully inside the room. I point to the bed, where Thomas is precariously perched, leaving him no choice in the matter. He listens begrudgingly, but angles his body directly away from Thomas.

I dart out and grab the chair from my study, and roll it over so that I’m facing the two of them.

“So what exactly do you think was going on?” I ask.

Thomas and Théo both shift uncomfortably. “Don’t treat me like a child, Jay,” Théo says after a pause. “I’m not going to stay if you’re not going to treat this like an adult conversation.”

“Right, let’s act like _adults_. Because adults storm into other adults’ houses and start throwing around ridiculous accusations.”

“I don’t think it’s that ridiculous.” Théo looks up and his eyes are clouded with pain. His voice stutters, but I refuse to let that influence me. I know he’s upset, but he’s _wrong_. I can’t believe he would think such things about either of us. “I walked in here, terrified that you wouldn’t want to talk to me, and I find you wrapped up in Tommy, as if I’ve gone back in time five months.”

“Théo.” Thomas shifts, leaning slowly forward to cup his hand on his friend’s cheek. His eyes are bright and his voice is suddenly fierce. “I _never._  You are my family – you know I could never do anything to hurt you.”

Théo’s shoulders sag and he seems to get smaller as his anger drains away. “ _Je sais_ ,” he mumbles under his breath, allowing Thomas to pull him into a hug.

I let them have their moment, and quietly wheel the chair back to its rightful place. When I get back, Thomas is off the bed and ready to leave. “He wants to have a bit of time alone,” he says.

I nod and tell him I’ll see him later and then walk over and settle on the bed next to Théo.

I take a breath, ready to ask Théo how he could possibly think that I, of all people, would ever cheat on him, but he just crashes into me, knocking the words from my mouth. “I know that was a colossally stupid thing to do,” he whispers into my neck, “but I just saw the two of you there and something snapped.”

He looks up, tears flowing freely now, staining his red cheeks. “I know I have no right to tell you what to do or who to sleep with,” he says, his shoulders shuddering with the effort of holding back. “But, please. Please, don’t sleep with Tommy. I don’t know if I’ll be able to bear it if you do. Watching you kiss him before was painful, doing it now would be torture.”

I don’t try to move Théo; I just let him burrow into my chest and settle my cheek into his soft hair. “Théo, I’m not going to be sleeping with anybody.” I pause for a second, and then my heart squeezes painfully. “Are – are you going to be sleeping with anybody?”

Théo pulls back quickly. “I _love_ you,” he says passionately. “If you’ve already forgotten. I don’t want anyone else.” He hiccups softly and then pulls back. “I’m not the one who’s ending things.”

Though the thought sends a shock of pain through my gut, there’s really nothing I can say to contradict him. At least I know I’ll have some time to try to pull myself together before I have to think of him with someone else.

Still, I can’t quite push my mother’s words out of my mind. “What about Riley?” I ask softly?

“What about her?”

“If she wanted to patch things up and start over, do you think that you – ”

“She could have killed Julien,” Théo says angrily. “She had the opportunity to end the pregnancy if she wanted – I would have supported her either way – but she chose to keep him. She chose to pump her body full of drugs and not even attempt to get clean. She refused to accept any of my help. Then she took off from the hospital without even letting me know that he was born and had the balls to show up in court primped and polished and full of bullshit stories about Tommy and me.” He looks at me, eyes blazing with anger. “If, by some miracle, she manages to pull her shit together, then I’ll be happy, because Julien deserves a better mother than he has right now. But there will _never_ be anything between us.”

I want to feel relief at Théo’s angry outburst, but I can’t. All I manage to feel is sadness. Sadness at the fact that Théo has been put through so much, sadness at the fact that I can’t make anything better, but most of all sadness knowing that even though it won’t be Riley, and it won’t be soon, there will come a time when he does move on. There will come a time when he finds someone who isn’t selfish or damaged or unwilling to compromise. He’ll find someone better than me; better for him and better for Julien. And I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the angst-fest pals. Although there was some plot sprinkled in as well. Next chapter: we get to meet the elusive Julien. (hint: he's really cute)


	10. Chapter Ten

For the first few days after our confrontation, I don’t see much of Thomas or Théo. Thomas pops over around midnight the night after to give me a quick kiss on the cheek and to drop off some red velvet cupcakes he’d picked up on his way home from work. On the way out he invites me to a party, but I respectfully decline and spend the rest of the night alternately trying to duplicate the bakery’s red velvet recipe and washing dishes until my hands are chapped before falling into bed at seven a.m.

Carson’s minivan is permanently parked in Théo’s drive, and I can always catch Lila through the window, running along the beach with her two little monsters and Julien in tow. I don’t really know what’s happened to the custody agreement, but I can only assume that in light of Riley’s actions, the case manager has allowed Julien to spend some time with his father. The twins seem to be treating Julien like some kind of pet or play toy, toddling along so fast that Julien’s chubby little legs are a blur trying to keep up. The blonde-haired boys flank him like body guards, reaching around his curly head to steal toys from each other and present them to their new friend. I’m working my way through a new dessert book, so I don’t really have time (or the inclination) to stare out the window and document his every move, but the small snatches I do manage to observe make me so anxious for Julien’s bare feet that I eventually have to pull down all the blinds and bake without any natural light. I mean, there’s _glass_ on the beach. And dog crap. Plus, the UV index has been unreasonably high these past few days, and I’ve noticed that Julien never seems to have his hat on for more than thirty seconds at a time. I debate calling Théo to ask him why his kid never seems to be properly attired, but I don’t want to give him the wrong idea.

Théo hasn’t emerged – or if he has it’s been during one of my many naps – so I can only assume that he’s hard at work. A small flare of resentment threatens to work its way through my system, so every so often I need to pull the blinds away for an instant to remind myself that there’s an actual child – a living, breathing, floppy-haired child – in the equation, and that this is bigger than a petty break-up.

Truthfully, I have a hard time conceptualizing the whole idea that our relationship is over. Unlike the first days after Alec’s departure, I keep busy. So busy, in fact, that I catch myself several times over those first days about to walk across the yard. I pick up my phone and start typing a text before I realize that I’m supposed to leave Théo alone. I debate asking Carson out for dinner, just so I can have an excuse to go next door and pick him up, but I know that it’s a stupid, selfish thought. Parading myself in front of Théo is the last thing he needs right now, especially when he’s so stressed.

On the third day, I run out of supplies. I’ve completely depleted my supply of milk, flour, and vanilla, and I still have a chapter on puddings and ice creams to get through. I tidy up the dishes that are left over from the chapter on pies and grab my keys so that I can head out to the grocery store. It’s almost dinnertime – time flies when you’re eating everything in sight, apparently – and the lines at the grocery store are going to be brutal, but I really can’t think of anything better to do.

I pull the door open quickly, and with my body half twisted to make sure I’ve turned off the lights and half propelled toward the car, I connect with something solid.

“Is this a bad time?” Théo’s voice interrupts my slew of apologies, and I twist to look at him so fast that something in my neck makes an ominous cracking sound.

“I, uh. _Ow_.” I run my hand over the back of my neck, pressing my fingers into the tingling muscle, and resist the urge to pull out my phone and text my sister. “I was uh, store,” I finish lamely. Really, it’s a good thing I’ve taken a break from practicing to settle into my teaching position – I don’t think I could win an argument with a sleepy six year old right now.

“I could come back.” Théo lifts his eyes from the ground, and I almost crick my neck a second time.

He looks _awful_. There are dark circles under his eyes and a patchy, half-grown beard that’s nothing like his usual stubble. His skin is pale and waxen and his head is hanging forward as if its weight might drag his entire body to the ground at any minute. I ball my fists at my sides and press my back to the door, resisting the urge pull him close and comfort him.

“No, no. It’s not important. Do you want, or should – will this take a minute?” I twist the knob and stumble back into the porch, Westley running to nip at my heels.

“Sure.” Théo follows me inside, bending down for a moment to pull Westley into his arms. He murmurs something into the dog’s fur and is rewarded with a series of licks across his cheek and forehead. He doesn’t look at me again until we’re both seated in the living room.

He keeps Westley close, petting him rhythmically, absentmindedly, from his head down to his tail. “I came to ask you a favor.”

“Sure, anything,” I say eagerly, wanting to do anything to wipe the haunted look off his face. A look that I know is at least partially my fault.

He grimaces and I freeze. A hundred reasons why Théo looks so pained cross my mind, and most of them center around him deciding to reconcile with Riley, her moving in next door, and having to watch the two of them walk down the beach swinging a delighted Julien between them. “It’s Riley,” he starts, and my jaw clenches so hard that my teeth make an ominous grinding sound that startles Westley. Thankfully Théo either doesn’t notice or decides to ignore it. “We wanted her to meet out of court to come up with a mutual agreement, one that we could then present to the judge with minimal hassle. She’s agreed to meet, but she’ll only do it tonight.” He glances down at his pocket watch – a family heirloom, I know from an afternoon spent talking about the Grandfather he wished he’d had time to know – and grimaces again. “In twenty-five minutes, actually. I’m pretty sure she only said yes because I have Julien until tomorrow and she wanted to interrupt the last bit of time we had together.”

My face feels like it’s stuck, frozen in an abject sort of horror and Théo starts to backpedal.

“Of course, it’s very short notice and you were just on the way to the shop – ”

“I just, I don’t know if I’m qualified. I mean, shouldn’t someone he knows, like Lila or Thomas be a better fit?”

“Lila’s gone out with a friend,” he says miserably. “Taken the twins with her. And Tommy…” He hesitates, running his free hand over the cover of his watch. “Tommy has a date.”

“A date?” I reply flatly. “He’s blowing this off to have sex?”

“No, a _date_.”

“A date.” We sound like characters in an Ionesco play. I debate saying this to Théo, just to see if he’ll smile, maybe look a little like he used to, but I’m too preoccupied by the thought of Thomas on an actual date to force out the words.

“I overheard him on the phone,” Théo admits, the faintest hint of a grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “Stumbling over his words…it was sweet.”

“Sweet?” I sound like a fucking parrot, but I honestly don’t have the mental capacity to process this information right now.

“ _Oui_ ,” Théo responds. The small slip tells me more about his mental state than anything else. There are only two things that make Théo revert to French: fatigue and, well, I really don’t have the mental capacity to process thoughts like _those_ either.

Théo continues on, oblivious to my mental distress. “I didn’t ask him to babysit because I know he’ll cancel; he’s probably looking for any reason at all to cancel. But if you don’t feel comfortable –”

“It’s not that,” I blurt, not wanting to screw up anybody else’s love life. “It’s just, well, I’m not exactly qualified. I mean, I know CPR and basic self-defense and I don’t really have a weak stomach, but –”

“Jay, he’s a toddler not a member of witness protection. Give him some dinner and maybe some Tupperware to play with. He doesn’t need a ninja, just a set of eyes to make sure he doesn’t try to eat any stray dog poop.”

Théo’s phone goes off and I find myself desperate to see him again, to not let this be the end of our conversation, and so I agree. The smile that breaks out on his face at the news almost makes the instant anxiety worth it.

“I’ll bring him right over,” Théo says as he rushes out the door, leaving a slack-jawed, stupefied, shell of an ex-boyfriend behind.

As soon as he’s out of sight I run to my office and start typing furiously into Google. I figure that dinner is my main obstacle, so that’s where I concentrate my efforts. I bring up the first two pages that look legit – _Food your 18 month-old actually wants to eat_ and _Foods that can be unsafe for your child_ – and hit print. I run to the kitchen and spread them out across the island, highlighting some of the objects in my fridge and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to get my hands on some whole milk in the next forty-five seconds. I run back to my office to put in an online grocery order, but Théo’s back and ringing the doorbell with a vengeance.

“Hello again,” I say, opening the door to find myself face to face with Julien, who is still pressing the doorbell, and bursting into giggles with each new noise.

Théo has Julien propped in one arm, a bag slung over his shoulder, and some sort of contraption trapped under his free armpit, but he manages to navigate to the kitchen with the grace of a dancer. I follow closely behind, my arms stretching out reflexively whenever Julien wobbles to the side, and wishing I had some Ativan.

The bit of plastic turns out to be a portable highchair, which Théo lays gently on the table along with the bag. He glances over at the lists and smiles softly.

“I don’t have any whole milk,” I announce with the same gravity and shame I’d had when I told my mother I was moving from New York to Las Vegas.

Théo blushes. “I know what milk you drink,” he says softly and turns to rifle through the enormous black bag on my counter. “I brought some from home.” He pulls open one of the four doors of my industrial-grade refrigerator before I have the chance to intercept.

“Jay, what the hell,” he murmurs, pulling open the other doors.

I look at the shelves and shelves of perfectly packaged desserts, flabbergasted myself at the sheer _volume_. All but two shelves have been commandeered by the entire contents of my new dessert cookbook. Théo places Julien on the floor, where he immediately toddles over to Westley, who has thus far been watching the scene unfurl with the quasi-judgmental disinterest I often reserve for my mother and very fluffy cats.

Théo wedges the bottle in between my stack of yogurt and stalk of broccoli and then closes all the doors. “Are you okay?” he asks, his face once again drawn and serious.

“I’m fine,” I say stiffly. “I was just bored.”

“Bored?” Théo glances at the bare cupboards and then picks up my hands – still raw from the constant kneading and scrubbing – and places them against his cheeks. He murmurs something low in French and I can feel the warmth of his breath against my sore skin.

“That’s not fair,” I whisper. “Speaking French is like keeping a secret.”

“There are some things you’d rather not hear, I think,” Théo replies softly.

I open my mouth to answer, but the sound of a horn blaring in the driveway startles Théo into dropping my hands, and the moment has passed.

“His milk is fine as is, and you can just give him some of whatever you’re eating,” Théo says. He glances at the paper again. “But it looks like Mindful Mommies has you all covered on that front.”

“Shut up,” I counter, feeling the heat rise to my cheeks. “You’ll have your cell?”

“Yes, call me if you need anything.” He bends over and runs his cheek along Julien’s hair and murmurs a short goodbye and then he’s gone. I hear the thud of a car door and then silence.

I glance over at Julien, who’s looking at the door with a wobbly sort of frown, and I dash for the fridge. Milk. Milk first, then food. I glance at the clock and then throw a half-assed prayer out into the universe, just in case there’s anyone listening.

\--

“Papa?” Julien says with his reedy lisp. His eyes are locked on the closed door and his tiny hands are balled into fists.

Panicked, I do the only thing I can think of and drop to the floor beside him. Ignoring the fact that Westley rubs his butt over this section of floor on an hourly basis, I scoot over toward Julien and reach out tentatively.

“Papa’s coming back soon.” I try to reassure him with an awkward pat on the shoulder.

He looks anything but convinced and his lip wobbles a little more. “Papa,” he whimpers piteously, and my stress level skyrockets at the sound. I slip a little on the floor, and by some miracle Westley thinks that it means I want to play. He skitters over to me, head down and butt in the air, his tail wagging furiously. As soon as he yips Julien’s wobbly frown transforms into another of the full-bodied giggles he’d made when pressing the doorbell.

“You want to play with the puppy?” I ask, relief bubbling up so quickly that I think for a minute I may be sick. “Let’s play fetch,” I continue, reaching across the floor to pull a ball out of Westley’s bed.

As Westley rockets across the floor, Julien squeals with delight. There’s color high in his chubby cheeks and his eyes crinkle exactly like his father’s. I watch him for a second, searching for some sign of Riley in his face, but I’m pleased to find that I can only see Théo. “Ball!” he says proudly when Westley comes to drop it at my feet.

“Ball,” I agree, handing it over to him to see if he’ll continue the game. He does, and he sends Westley scrambling across the kitchen once more. Unwilling to let this kind of opportunity pass me by, I hop back to my feet and toward the fridge, hoping that I can prepare something for supper before the novelty of fetch fades.

By the time Westley decides he’s had enough, I’ve managed to warm up four different sets of leftovers and attach Julien’s mutant highchair to the edge of the table. I feel like the contraption is an accident waiting to happen, but that’s where Théo wanted me to put him, so that’s where he’s going. The last thing I need is for him to fall off one of my chairs and end this little visit in the emergency room.

Since pureed foods seem to be the safest option, the first thing I place in front of him is a bowl of squash soup. It’s warm (but not hot) and smells delicious. I take a spoonful of my own and smile widely, hoping that toddlers aren’t perceptive enough to discern between enthusiasm and borderline mania. “Yummmm,” I say, licking my lips. “Delicious.”

Julien dips a tentative finger in, completely ignoring his own spoon, and makes his own exaggerated face of disgust once he crams it in his mouth. I reach to lift the bowl away, but apparently I’m no match for toddler reflexes and the bowl is upside down on the floor before I can do anything. Westley, always ready to pounce, is lapping up the mess in less than five seconds. “Mmmmm, ‘licious,” Julien parrots as the dog slurps away happily.

The salmon, spinach ravioli, and garlic mashed potatoes also end up being resounding failures. By some toddler witchcraft, Julien manages to get bits and pieces of each of the three stuck on his face, caught in his hair, and flung on the floor, but none actually go in his mouth. The only thing he’ll consent to ingesting is the milk Théo brought over, and I have no idea what to do.

Panicked at the prospect of having to tell Théo that I managed to turn his son from food in a mere forty-minute window, I do the only thing I can think of: call my sister.

“What do you give an eighteen month old child who won’t eat anything?” I say as soon as she picks up the phone.

“Jay?”

“No, it’s your other brother, Steve. This is not the time for stupid questions, Em. I need an answer.”

Emma, long used to talking people down from crises is completely unruffled by my squawking. “Why do you have an eighteen month old child?”

“Food, Emma! I need food.”

“Calm down, Jay,” she says, pulling out her full-fledged Soothing Therapist Voice. “Whichever toddler you’ve kidnapped has probably eaten sometime in the past three days, so I think you have ten seconds to tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t think he’s going to starve. I just don’t want to have Théo – ”

“Théo?” Emma’s voice wavers for the first time. “You’re feeding Théo’s kid?”

“There was an emergency and he asked me for a favor, what was I supposed to do?”

I can hear Emma’s small cluck of annoyance. “Say no? I mean, you broke up with the guy precisely for this reason and somehow he’s conned you into playing nanny? I mean, I’m the only one in the family who isn’t professionally paranoid, but that sounds a little suspicious to me.”

“It’s not like that,” I counter sharply. Théo had a family emergency and I volunteered to help.”

Emma’s voice turns softer, more sincere. “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she says. “I don’t want things to be like they were after Alec.”

A pulse of anger burns through me at the association. I look over at Julien, who is happily tossing pieces of mashed potato at Westley’s waiting mouth. So much for not giving the dog any table food. It hurts to think of how much Théo has had to sacrifice for this little boy; what I’ve forced him to sacrifice. “Théo is _nothing_ like Alec.”

Emma’s small yeah is almost lost in the echo of the long-distance call.

“Can you just help me, Em? I really want to get some food into this kid.”

“When you were little you refused to eat anything but peanut butter and jelly sandwiches cut into special shapes. Do you have any cookie cutters?”

“Peanut butter? You want me to give him peanut butter? What if he has some kind of anaphylactic reaction?”

“Did Théo tell you he was allergic to anything?”

“No, but that doesn’t mean he _isn’t_. He could have just forgotten.”

Emma snorts. “Believe me, he didn’t forget.”

Irritation sweeps through me, compounding my frustration, and I have to work to keep my voice down. “So now you’re a Théo expert?”

“No, Jay,” Emma says, “I’m a _parent_. If the kid was allergic to anything, Théo would have told you, I promise.”

And that’s really what it comes down to, isn’t it? Théo is a parent, I’m not. I can’t get Julien to eat one meal and I have to rely on my puppy to keep him entertained. Emma doesn’t know Théo or Julien, and she can do a better job over the phone than I can do in person. I’ve never been interesting, patient, or selfless enough to care for another human being. I can’t even cut it as a last-resort babysitter.

Emma’s voice rises, jolting me out of my ruminations. “Hmm?”

“I said you should just call him,” she repeats. “If you’re worried.”

“No, you’re right,” I say hastily, not wanting to let her convince me to call Théo. What if he leaves his meeting? What if he never trusts me again after this? “Théo would never let anything happen to his son.” I pause, staring at the loaf of bread on my counter. “Should the sandwich be toasted?”

“Jesus Christ,” Emma sighs, and then proceeds to walk me through the finer points of a perfect toddler PB and J.

By the time I hang up Julien has run out of spare bits of potato to fling at the floor, and is shrieking and wagging his arms. “Down!” he says insistently, his lip curled up in a pout that is a perfect imitation of his father. Though I’ve never been swayed by the machinations of toddlers in the past, only focusing on the drool and the snot and the dirty diapers, there’s no way I can deny the way that that particular face tugs at my chest. Julien may have been raised in America, but that expression is one hundred percent French.

“All right, out,” I answer, lifting him from the confines of the plastic chair. I set him down on the floor and he waddles behind toward the counter. As I take out the jars of peanut butter and jelly, he tugs on the side of my pants. “Me up!” he says. He pauses as if considering something, and then tacks on a mangled “please?”

Suspicious that he’s actually some kind of diabolical genius with a mind-control device, I pick him up and place him carefully on the counter, boxing him in with one arm and reaching for the bread with the other. He seems content to watch and stays surprisingly still as I wait for the toast to pop. He babbles, though I’m not sure if it’s a stream of French or just baby-talk. When the sandwich is ready, I put him back on the floor to cut the crusts and cut the sandwich into an approximation of a star. By the time he’s noticed what’s happened, I thrust the food in front of his face.

He takes the sandwich out of my hands gingerly and flips it over, examining it like he’s completing some grand scientific inquiry. He squeezes it between his pudgy fingers and a glob of grape jelly trickles onto the floor. I wince involuntarily, but Westley the Hoover is over and has disappeared all traces before I can get a dishcloth. Julien giggles and then crams one of the star’s pointed ends into his mouth. I nearly collapse with relief as he chews and swallows the first bite. By the time he’s finished there are smears of peanut butter on my fridge and a purple stain on my pantry door, but Julien is full and content and I figure that they can wait until Théo comes to pick him up.

\--

Théo was right about Julien not needing a lot of direct guidance. He toddles all over the house, pulling down objects he finds interesting and rifling through the books he finds on my bookshelf. Inspired by his enthusiasm, I direct him toward my bedroom, where I’ve been keeping a stash of books that I haven’t got around to sending to Emma.

“Book!” Julien squeals with excitement; yet another way he’s like his father. “Book!”

“Book indeed,” I reply, grabbing a handful.

With the prospect of a book on the horizon, Julien completely settles down. In fact, he pulls himself up onto the sofa and curls his tiny body into mine, his head resting against my stomach, at the perfect height for pointing to all the pictures. I shift awkwardly, not wanting to make him upset, but a little unsure about what I should be doing. He doesn’t make a sound, except to sometimes repeat words after me, and by the time we make it through four of the small, cardboard books, he’s fighting to keep his eyes open.

“Are you sleepy?” I make the mistake of asking.

Abruptly Julien is ramrod straight with his eyes peeled open as widely as possible. “No,” he says resolutely.

Dumbfounded by the abrupt change of pace, I can’t do anything but stare at him.

“No!” he shouts again, looks toward me with a wide-eyed look of betrayal. I’ve been stared down by vicious opposing council and none of them have ever made me feel as guilty as this one-and-half-year-old. I am so far out of my depth.

I fire off a quick text to Emma, pleading again for advice.

_Put on some TV?_

_Should little kids watch TV?_

_His mother’s a crack addict…pretty sure a half an hour of Toopy and Binoo isn’t going to kill him._

A fair enough point, but I have absolutely no idea what a Toopy or Binoo is supposed to be. I decide to ask Julien’s opinion.

“Would you like to go watch some TV?” I ask innocently, figuring that if I have to deal with his blatant manipulation, then he can stand a little of mine.

His sleepy eyes perk up a little at the prospect of TV. Afraid that if he falls asleep on the couch, he might roll over and break an arm, I convince him to watch television in the bedroom, promising ardently that there will be absolutely no sleeping.

Once he’s settled in, I pile a bunch of pillows along his side, boxing him into the center of the bed. I take a place on top of the blankets beside him, ready to subject myself to the absolutely terrifying mindfuck that is children’s programming.

\--

I wake up feeling panicked and disoriented, with Théo’s hand on my shoulder. I shoot up from the bed, heart pounding, just to see Théo staring down at me with a familiar hollowed-out look. I glance quickly at Julien, but he’s fine and sleeping soundly.

“I let him watch TV,” I whisper. “And I didn’t have a little toothbrush, so he didn’t brush his teeth. Plus, he’s a horrible Frenchman and wouldn’t eat any prepared meals, so I had to feed him _peanut butter_. Théo leans down and presses his finger to my lips.

“It’s okay,” he says, settling down on the bed beside me. “Thank you for doing this.”

He leans forward slightly, and I prop myself up to meet him. “It wasn’t that bad,” I murmur back, surprised to find that I’m telling the truth. I know I’ll have to scrub down the kitchen when Théo leaves and that it may take a few hours for my heart rate to settle, but at least no one was seriously injured.

“Nice pillow fort,” Théo says finally, apparently needing to look anywhere but directly at me.

Stupid with sleep and emboldened by my fear of watching him walk out the door without me, I run my hand along his arm. “I miss you,” I divulge quietly, knowing but not caring that this is an acutely unfair proclamation.

“I miss you so much,” Théo answers, leaning in to rest his face against my neck. His patchy beard scrapes against the skin, and he shifts slightly so that his lips are pressed lightly into the curve of my neck. He leaves a short, wet kiss on the sensitive skin, and I can’t stop myself from shuddering.

Julien coughs lightly, and Théo backs away quickly, as if he didn’t realize what he had been doing. He walks over to the opposite side of the bed and scoops his son into his arms, murmuring softly for him to go back to sleep.

“I’m sorry,” he says, pausing at the door.

“No, don’t be sorry,” I scramble to reason with him. “Don’t ever be sorry, for anything.”

Julien snuggles closer and Théo smiles absently. “It won’t happen again,” he says firmly. “I know that this is not what you want.”

He turns and walks out of the room before I have a chance to answer. I realize, once I hear the front door close, that I didn’t even ask about how the meeting had gone.

\--

I find out about the meeting not from Théo, but Thomas. He stops by after lunch the next day, and uses all the information he has about my ex-boyfriend to get out of talking about his mysterious date. He remains so steadfastly closed-lipped that I have no choice but to believe that he may actually be _serious_ about the guy.

Unfortunately, the news about Théo and Riley is much less encouraging than Thomas’s dating prospects. Riley, annoyed that Théo and Carson managed to make the meeting at all, was completely hostile to all of their suggestions and came prepared with questions about Théo’s lifestyle choices and stories about Thomas’s lechery.

“It was my fault last time,” Thomas says miserably, poking at the brownie he fished out of my fridge. “Maybe if I moved out that would give him a better chance.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” I stop, taking in the lines of misery etched clearly into Thomas’s boyish face. It’s perverse, seeing him in a state like this; he’s supposed to be the one’s who’s happy. Even if Théo and I are fucked up, we need Thomas to pull us through. “Théo didn’t say anything, did he?”

“You know he wouldn’t,” Thomas says, pushing the brownie away. “He’s probably never even considered it. He’s a better person than I am.”

“And me,” I agree, thinking of how he drove me to the hospital when we first met, even though I was a complete asshole to him.

“It’s just, I haven’t lived away from him since I was a teenager.” He draws in, circling his arms around his knees. “I’m a selfish bastard, and I don’t want to be without him.”

Though I don’t say so, I can completely understand the feeling.

“This is all _her_ fault,” he sneers, his face twisted and grim. “The drug-addled slag.”

As much as I would love to hear more about Riley and how she came into the picture, all I really want is to help Thomas. “You’re always welcome here.”

Thomas smiles, but shakes his head. “That would kill him, you know it would. Losing Julien would break his heart, but so will thinking of us living together here.” He claps his hands against his legs and rises from the table. “If I have to go, it must be on my own.” He leans in and kisses me swiftly on the cheek. “You’re allowed to still drop by, you know. I know he’d be happy if you did.”

“Doesn’t seem fair,” I reply, taking up his discarded fork and shoveling some brownie into my mouth. “Not when I’m the one who called it off.”

Thomas shrugs, looking like he wants to say more, but his cell goes off and he hurries out the door, the tips of his ears suspiciously pink.

\--

The next day gets off to a more auspicious start than the rest of the week. For once, I get up at seven-thirty, like a functioning human being, and actually send a few emails. Since I’m not teaching a class in the fall semester, I’ll be helping out with some paperwork and working in an advisory capacity with my old firm in Las Vegas, and it feels good to do something productive. I’ve also signed up for an online French class. After all, it’s a little embarrassing to be surrounded by friends who can speak multiple languages when I’m restricted to one.

The real surprise comes around eleven o’clock, when I get a phone call from my mother. My mother, who usually sends an email to let me know when she’ll be available to talk, never calls during the day. So, with my heart pounding, I scramble to pick up the phone.

“Hello?” I say tentatively, preparing for the worst.

“Happy Birthday, James,” she proclaims in her closest approximation of a gush. “I had hoped to be able to visit for your thirtieth, but you know how things can get with work.”

The comment goes completed unnoticed in the light of a bigger realization. My birthday. It’s my thirtieth birthday. I must have looked at my phone fifty times this morning and not once did this fact register. How sad must my life be that it takes a phone call from my mother to remind me that I’m turning thirty? Most people plan a big bash; my biggest plan is to download a documentary about natural disasters and eat the remaining brownies in my fridge.

“Do you have big plans for tonight?”

“Absolutely,” I lie, for once not bothering to feel badly about it. If my mother finds out the truth she’ll call Emma, and then Emma will call me, and that is not how I’d like to spend this birthday. “Thomas is taking me to dinner and then we’re going to a party with some of his friends.”

“How lovely. Is Thomas from the University?”

“Thomas is my neighbor, Mother,” I sigh, punching at my keyboard. “Théo’s roommate.”

My mother doesn’t answer, but rather draws out a long-winded sigh. “I do hope you’re getting out and meeting new people, sweetheart,” she says after a tick. “You’ve had your first fling after your engagement, and now it’s time to think seriously. You’re no longer in your twenties, you know.”

Yes, for all of nine hours. In order to keep myself from saying some choice words that I’ve never dared utter in my mother’s presence, I quickly make up an excuse and hang up the phone. Then I turn it off and throw it in my desk drawer. If anyone else wants to wish me a happy birthday they can do so via email or in person.

I spend the next few hours vacillating between wanting to call my mother back and ask her how _dare_ she think Théo was some sort of fling, some sort of _dalliance_ to just fill the space until I was over Alec and wondering if that’s how I treated him. Wondering if that’s what he thinks too. Seeing him last night was like a knife between my ribs, and the sharp pulse of pain returns whenever I think of his too-dark eyes and his too-white skin. When Alec ended things I thought I’d never feel the same about anyone, and maybe that was true, but what I felt – what I _feel_ – for Théo is entirely new.

The love I felt for Alec, I’ve come to realize over the past year, was a diluted, corrosive thing. He was someone I felt I had helped _fix_ , that I though I had somehow made better with my love. I had wholeheartedly believed that we would be together forever, but now that I’ve had a chance to really love someone for all his flaws and faults and irritating habits, I know that the two are incomparable. Théo may be a cantankerous, pretentious hipster, but he’s _my_ cantankerous, pretentious hipster.

Alec was a crutch while Théo was an anchor. We saved each other.

As if manifested by my thoughts, Théo’s voice echoes in the quiet emptiness of my house and my heart thuds painfully in my chest. “Jay?”

“Living room,” I call out, furiously smoothing my hair and hoping I don’t still look incredibly pissed off.

Théo creeps in and takes a seat beside me. He looks better than yesterday – clean-shaven and dressed in something nicer than a yogurt-stained t-shirt – but there’s really no way to dress away the dark circles and lines of pain that seem permanently etched in his face. He’s too young to look so defeated. Still, he smiles and reaches out to take one of my hands in his. “We need to talk,” he says. “I want you to come to the house with me.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Théo nods, resolute. “Thomas is out and Julien is with his grandparents.” He looks up, suddenly shy. “I mean, you don’t have to, but I would like it if you did.”

I flick off the TV and stand, heart pounding. “Sure,” I say, trying to think back to a time when I had grace under pressure. “If that’s what you want.”

We don’t talk on our way to the house. Théo keeps glancing to the side, as if to convince himself that I’m real, and I don’t know what to say to break the awkward silence. When we get to the door he stops and takes a fortifying breath, then reaches out to grab my hand.

The house is dim when he pulls me inside. There’s an arrangement of Chinese takeout on the table, along with a small package in confetti wrapping paper, and a lopsided cake with light blue frosting. There are tiny birthday hats by each plate.

It’s a _birthday supper_. I can’t even remember ever telling Théo when my birthday was. I can’t believe, with everything else he has going on, that this is what he spent his afternoon doing.

“Théo, what –”

Théo cuts off my choked up question by gently running his fingers up my arm. “You have three choices,” he says softly, his fingers still moving. “You can take the present, leave, and forget that this ever happened. You could also sit down for dinner, talk to me about what’s been going on and then go home.” He pauses and his fingers tremble a little against my skin. “Or,” he continues, “we could take a pause from this nightmare and just for one night pretend that everything is back to normal.” He looks up at me, fierce and broken and brave. “I know that it’s stupid and that tomorrow when you leave it’s going to hurt like hell, but _merde, tu me manques_.” He reaches out and cups my face in his hands, and I fall into him, pretending, as he suggested, that everything is normal.

The kiss is electric, but it’s also easy. His skin is searing hot against mine, and the rise and fall of his chest is like a song that’s been stuck in the back of my head, trying its best to make its way back to the surface. At the first press of lips I really can feel the weight of these past weeks falling away. Kissing Théo feels like heaven. Kissing Théo feels like coming home.

“I was thinking,” I pant, guiding him toward the steps as he mouths across my jaw, “of a fourth option.” I grin, hoisting him up and pinning him against the wall, loving his short gasp. “I prefer my Chinese cold.”


	11. Chapter Eleven

We don’t even make it as far as the stairway. With Théo’s breathy assurances that no one is going to interrupt, I waste no time in ripping off his clothes off with quick, sloppy movements. Part of me longs to pull back, take my time, and savor every touch, but it’s been too long. Théo tugs and pulls and scrapes his way into my clothes and the needy pants that escape his throat are too much for me to resist. We end up frotting against the floor like horny teenagers, red scrapes and dark bruises decorating our skin. There’s no time for finesse or soft words or light touches, and the deep, selfish part of me is glad that Théo is so desperate that he can barely catch his breath. I’m glad that he’s been missing this as much as I have. 

When we’re finished – barely five minutes since we came through the front door – I push myself up from Théo’s body to find him staring at me with an open intensity that makes me ache. He shifts slightly, his cheeks flushing, and starts to talk. Desperate to keep him from talking about anything that will dredge up the memories of the past few weeks, I just lower myself down until I catch his lips in a soft kiss. 

His lips are warm and wet and this time I go slowly. I pour everything I’ve been feeling into the kiss – every apology I wish I could have said and every feeling I’ve been afraid to voice. I feel him, hard and hot against my stomach, and I press even deeper. He sighs as I sweep my tongue across his lips, and wraps his legs around my hips. When I finally pull away his eyes are glazed and there’s a perfect pink flush across his cheekbones. He looks content and amazed and that, I think stupidly, is the face that I want to be looking at for the rest of my life. 

By unspoken agreement he stays wrapped around me as I lift us both from the floor. We kiss, slow and wet, as I feel my way up the stairs with Théo’s fingers running softly through my curls. I grip him tightly, relishing the way his skin feels against mine, and when we make it to the bedroom I lower him softly on the bed, tracing down the line of his stomach with the pads of my fingers. He shivers slightly, and then moves to haul the blankets over himself, bashful as always under the full force of my gaze. 

“Don’t,” I whisper, grabbing his wrist and kissing it softly. “You’re perfect.” His eyes flutter shut as I nuzzle against his soft abdomen, and his shivers escalate into moans of pleasure as I take the time to fully explore his skin. He stills as I take him in my mouth, and that makes a flood of warmth rush through me. I take my time, until I’m rewarded with his descent into an incoherent string of French and then shift back up to kiss him. 

“Please, Jay,” he says, pressing upward with insistence. “Please.” 

I reach out until I find the familiar bottle of lube stashed in his beside table and pop the cap quickly. Despite his increasing fervency, I take the time to rub my fingers together, wanting everything to be perfect. Needing this to be perfect, for him. I swallow his moans as I press my fingers inside, and we’re so close that I can feel his heart pounding against my skin.

“Jay,” he whispers again, his voice trembling slightly as I press forward. “Jay, I love–”

He pauses, and looks so fucking lost and so fucking beautiful that for once I don’t think of consequences. I don’t think of Julien or Riley or any of the shit that we have to deal with. I don’t think of the pain I might cause. I just think of Théo, and of how badly I want him to stay here, wrapped up in my arms forever, and push his hair back from his eyes gently. 

“I know,” I say softly. “I know and I love you too, Théo. I love you so much.” 

Théo doesn’t answer. Instead, he just pulls me closer so that he can bury his head in my neck. He holds me tightly, fingers digging into my ribs, but I don’t dare tell him to loosen his grip. I understand his need completely. I let him take what he needs, and we fall together perfectly. Absolutely. 

\--

When we’re clean and settled, limbs tangled together and breaths falling into sync, I notice that Théo is being uncharacteristically quiet. Usually he can’t shut up after sex. I had always assumed the chatter took the edge off needing a post-coital cigarette, and it’s not like I ever minded listening to his throaty mutterings while blissed out and content. Now though, he’s perched against me like a bird ready to take flight; even his breaths are short and rapid.

I twist to face him without breaking contact, needing to feel him against me to convince myself that this is actually happening. I cuddle up to his side, slinging my leg across his and tucking him close to my chest. His steadfast silence breaks for a second as he sighs and lays a hand across my arm, but he still doesn’t say anything. 

I take a fortifying breath and get ready for the serious discussion I know needs to come. “Théo,” I start, but I stutter to a halt as he looks up at me, eyes wide and panicked. 

“Don’t,” he says piteously, eyes dropping. “It’s okay, I get it.” 

“Get what?” 

“Why you said it,” Théo continues, morose. “It was the heat of the moment. I just – ” He pauses, his voice catching slightly. “I just don’t want to hear you say it was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” I repeat flatly. I draw away, more out of irritated disbelief than a need to prove Théo right, but instead of the sharp comeback I’m expecting, Théo draws even further into himself.

I try to summon the righteous indignation that usually spurs my tirades, but I find myself empty. All I want to do is draw Théo up, to make him feel that what I said couldn’t possibly be anything but true, so that’s what I do. 

“Théo,” I murmur, pressing my lips to his temple, watching the way my breath shifts his hair. “Telling you I love you was no mistake. In fact, it’s the only sane thing I’ve done in weeks.”

“Thomas told me he told you,” Théo insists, still stubbornly rigid. “This whole case is going to shit, and my looking like, and I quote – a bigger crackhead than Riley ever was – isn’t helping matters.” 

“So what?” I ask, trying to lift his face so that he’s looking at me. “You think that I agreed to this – that I said that to you – out of pity?” 

He doesn’t answer, but instead rolls over so that his back is to me. Not wanting to push, I just spoon myself against him and rest my head above his on the pillow. I trace my fingers lightly along his back. “Look at everything you did for me today. Your life is hectic right now, and you spent the whole day planning this birthday dinner. You even got me a present.”

“It’s just a mixing bowl I had in the cupboard,” he spits out. “I just wanted an excuse to come talk to you. To lure you over here.” 

“Lure me?” I have to bite back a laugh – both at the ridiculous present and the image of Théo luring me across the lawn like some sort of siren. “Théo, you don’t have to lure me anywhere. Some days it takes all the willpower I have not to sprint across the lawn and beg you to forgive me.”

Théo’s voice is small in the darkness of the room. “But you haven’t.”

“Not because I don’t care about you.” I move closer, pulling Théo’s back tight against my chest. “Because I don’t know how to do this. I can barely take care of myself, let alone a child. I just wasn’t prepared for that kind of responsibility.”

“And so,” Théo says bitterly. “Nothing’s changed.” 

I pause for a moment to collect my thoughts, needing to find the best way to make Théo understand that I’m serious. That despite all my issues and reservations and whether or not we can make things work between us I do love him. “My mother called today,” I finally say. “And she talked about how I could finally move on with my life now that my post-engagement fling was over.”

Théo flinches and I brush my lips across his shoulder reflexively. “I’ve never been so angry with her in all my life,” I confide. “I didn’t understand how she could ever think that – how anyone could ever think that.” I pull Théo around so that he’s facing me. “And then I realized that that was the impression I must have given you. I was angry and scared and I completely freaked out, but I want – I need – you to know that you were never a fling for me. There’s no comparison, Théo. The way I feel about you is so much different – so much more – than anything I’ve felt before. If you hadn’t come over to get me, then it was only a matter of time before I showed up on your doorstep.” I lean down and press a kiss to his cheek. “I love you,” I whisper before moving to his lips. “I’ll say it as many times as you need.” 

“Julien isn’t going anywhere,” Théo says, breaking the kiss. “Even if Riley wins, he’s still going to be part of this deal.” 

“I know that. And I don’t want to lie and tell you that it’s going to be okay, because it might not be. But I all I know is that things aren’t okay now either. Being without you is ripping me apart, and I don’t think it would be self-involved to assume you’ve been feeling the same way.” 

Théo doesn’t need to answer, so I keep going. “Théo, I honestly don’t know if this is going to work, but I need to try. That is, if you want to?”

Théo pauses, and for one painful, horrible second I think that he’s going to say no. That he’ll say I’m too big a liability, that he doesn’t want Julien to get used to someone only to have that person walk away when things don’t work out perfectly. I mean, almost anyone would make a better role model than a neurotic, self-involved, workaholic with major coping issues. Instead, Théo surges forward and buries his head in my chest. I can feel the pinprick of tears against my skin and I pull him closer. I wait until his breaths even out, until exhaustion overtakes him, before I gently roll him over and pull his back against my chest once again. Then, after a gentle kiss to his neck, I finally let myself relax enough to sleep. 

\--

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” 

I wake to a sudden flood of light to find Thomas standing at the side of the bed, disapproval radiating like a force field. 

“Really, Jay?” he says as Théo curls further into my side, burying his head under the blankets. “I ask you to think about Théo’s feelings and maybe spend some time over here and this is what you come up with? A replaying of the fucking sexcapades?” 

“Fuck off, Tommy,” Théo grinds out, his voice muffled by the blankets. I can’t help but smile fondly at the lump hiding my grouchy boyfriend. 

Thomas, completely misinterpreting the gesture, gets even more defensive. “You think this is funny, Jay?” He leans in, his voice low and sharp. “You have no idea what you’re doing. This is going to completely fuck him up when you leave, and he can’t afford that right now. No one wins a child custody case looking like a deranged fucking hobo – you should understand that.”

Théo whines again and I push Thomas back toward the light switch. “Turn the light off, Thomas.” I whisper. “And calm down. I’m back for good.” 

“Oh, that’s just bloody wonderful,” Thomas spits. “You’re back for…” He pauses, understanding flooding his features, and then breaks into a brilliant grin. The kind that’s been absent for far too long, lost in the wake of being consumed by worry for his best friend. Instead of switching off the light and bowing out gracefully – because who am I kidding, really? – he bounds toward the bed and leaps under the blankets. “That’s brilliant!” 

Théo screeches and tries to shimmy away from Thomas’s cold hands, but he’s too slow with sleep to really provide much resistance. “Jay,” Théo moans, “stop him.” 

I reach across and drag Thomas toward me, and he allows himself to be successfully manhandled to my side of the bed. “God,” he says with exaggerated relish, “How I’ve missed these biceps.” 

Théo finally comes awake with that comment, and turns to glare fitfully at Thomas. His gesture, however, is eclipsed by a small snort from the doorway. There’s a man standing there, obscured by the lights so that all I can see is a tuft of curly black hair, looking at Thomas with an exasperated fondness I so often feel myself. 

“Oh,” Thomas says, quite obviously trying to stop himself from smiling. “This is Rajiv.” His words are jumbled and fall from his mouth too quickly to be casual. 

Théo, completely awake now, snaps his head up and then looks between Thomas and Rajiv, a smile curling at his lips. “Hello, Rajiv.” 

Thomas shimmies out of the bed quickly. “I’ll let you two catch up.” He looks back with an exaggerated leer. “Maybe you can come introduce yourself to Raj when you’re decent.” 

“Why?” Théo bites, still smirking. “It’s not as if he’s going to get much exposure to decent if he’s dating you.” 

“Don’t mind Théo,” Thomas says loftily. “He’s practically the embodiment of every French stereotype. Plus, there’s just some longstanding jealousy issues that make him cranky.” He lowers his voice to a stage whisper. “Penis envy, you understand?” 

Rajiv rolls his eyes and gives us a short wave, and I decide immediately that I like him.

“I told you he looked like an underwear model’s wet dream,” I hear Thomas say as he disappears around the corner. “Loves to lord it over the rest of us,” he continues. “Once pretended he wanted to learn how to surf just so we’d have to look at him with his shirt off for hours a day.” 

I groan and bury my head under the pillows, wondering why I ever decided it would be a good idea to befriend Thomas. 

This time it’s Théo’s turn to laugh, and he pokes his head underneath the pillow, kissing my cheek softly. “He’s right, you know.” 

“So you agree that I’m a pompous, preening jackass?” 

Théo bites my throat lightly. “You do look like a underwear model’s wet dream.” He runs his hands across my stomach. “It’s like you shouldn’t even be real.” 

“I’m glad that I’m good for something,” I grouse. “Even if it’s just being objectified by my asshole boyfriend.” 

Théo hesitates for a second, and I can practically feel him processing the word boyfriend. He recovers quickly though, and continues his hands-on exploration. “You can’t really blame me,” he says. “Who can think clearly with abs like these as a distraction?” 

“So much for finding someone who loves me for who I am,” I sigh, shivering slightly as Théo’s fingers trace across my nipple. 

“Don’t be an idiot,” he mock-scolds. “You’re way too fucked up to expect anything of the sort.” 

“Jeez, I love you too,” I answer, flipping Théo and pinning him to the bed. Whatever comeback he has is lost as I nip at his lips and within minutes both of us are too far-gone for words. 

\--

It takes us about an hour to shower and make our way downstairs, and when we get there we’re greeted by Thomas and Rajiv kissing against the kitchen counter, pancakes sizzling in the background. 

The kiss is soft and chaste, and makes me feel intrusive in a way that I never have around Thomas. I’ve seen him in all states of undress with any number of guys, but this moment feels private. It feels special. 

And then there’s the fact that I’ve never seen Thomas break away from a guy with a light flush on his face and his lip between his teeth. It’s adorable. 

Théo seems to think so too, and I have to grab him and wrap him in a hug to keep him from sidling across the kitchen to antagonize Thomas. As it is, short of some behavior that’s inappropriate in the middle of the crowded kitchen, I can’t really keep Théo’s mouth shut. 

“So, Rajiv,” he says without trying to break free of my grip. “Tommy’s been uncharacteristically closed-lipped about the two of you. How did you meet?” 

If Rajiv is intimidated by the sudden attention, he certainly doesn’t show it. In fact, he looks perfectly at ease for a man who’s in for a lengthy interrogation. He turns and I can see a glint of gold at the corner of his eye; it’s understated, but brings out the small flecks of yellow in his irises. 

“We met at the shop,” he answers, casting a fond look at Thomas. “The cash register was broken and I was there to fix it.” 

Clearly dissatisfied with the brevity of the answer, Théo moves to ask something else, but is interrupting by Thomas. 

“It was quite the meet-cute,” he says, brandishing his spatula at Théo. “Now do you two want pancakes?” 

“Definitely,” I reply, taking the time to bury my nose in Théo’s hair and make him grin. “Pancakes for everyone.” 

Théo’s attempts at weaseling information out of Rajiv get weaker and weaker as the meal goes on. We manage to discover that he was born and raised in California, that he has six siblings scattered across the country, and not a single surprise love-child. He’s quick-witted, funny, and obviously smart. It’s too bad that I’m too caught up in Théo to give Thomas the hard time he deserves. Any other day and I’d be sure to point out the small smiles he keeps flashing at Rajiv or the way he jumps up to make more pancakes before anyone’s plate is empty. As it stands, I can barely bring myself to break my eyes away from Théo. I don’t know if I ever fully appreciated the way his nose moves when he chews or the fact that he spells out his name in syrup as he’s preparing his pancakes. 

Still, there will be more time to annoy Thomas. For now, I’m content to just sit like this, my feet intertwined with Théo’s, smiling stupidly around mouthfuls of breakfast.

\--

There isn’t much of a honeymoon period. I have half a day to spend with Théo before Carson comes barreling back, eager to get to work on the case. Lila barely seems able to contain her glee when she walks in on Théo and I sharing the same cup of coffee, but she buries her smile in one of the twin’s hair and refrains from commenting. 

Despite Thomas’s insistence that I’ve been to Law School, I’m not really any help when it comes to building Théo’s case. I ask him if he’d like a Dermatologist operating on his brain when the need finally arose, but he shrugs the comment off and waltzes out of the room without a care. Honestly, getting a steady boyfriend has made him even more annoying, if only because he can’t be bothered to argue with me anymore.

Carson’s reaction is mixed: on one hand, he doesn’t want me anywhere near the case or his meticulous notes, but conversely he thinks that my “status” as Théo’s significant other makes a compelling case for a stable home life, thus crushing one of Riley’s main arguments. 

While I assumed that strengthening the case would make Théo happy, whenever Carson refers to me as his partner, Théo’s face closes off. He grips his papers, white knuckled and taciturn, and I have no time and no strategy with which to approach him. Silently, I wonder if he doesn’t trust me enough to become a real part of his defense; I wonder if part of him is just waiting for me to walk away again. I debate asking him during our moments of downtime, but he insists our time together is the only break he gets from thinking of “all that shit”. Instead, we stay in bed for hours at a time, feeding each other pizza; we go out to restaurants and I swoon as Théo orders in perfect French; and we go to old bookstores where Théo keeps picking out novels he swears I will like, despite my preference for nonfiction. Basically, during the stolen minutes between case prep, my freelance work, and obligatory Thomas-time, we act exactly like the couple I had been afraid we’d never be. 

And it feels completely wrong. 

I feel like an asshole even thinking that, but it’s true. Every time Théo steers the conversation away from Riley, every time he interrupts one of Thomas’s questions about Julien, and every time he schedules a visit with his son around my sporadic meetings it feels a little less like consideration and a little more like accusation. I can’t shake the feeling that Théo doesn’t trust me with a huge part of his life, and despite the whispered confessions, stolen kisses, and steamy sex, that feels like a step backward. I understand that I didn’t handle the Julien situation well, but when I told Théo I wanted to try, I meant it. I didn’t mean I wanted this superficial relationship, I meant that I wanted him – messy stuff included – and the fact that he doesn’t seem to understand this hurts.

Torn between fear of losing Théo for good and guilt that it was my own selfishness that prompted this behavior, the issue doesn’t get aired for weeks. Every time I try to bring it up I think of all the damage I’ve already caused and switch the topic at the last second. Every time Théo snaps at me I swallow my retort and remind myself that all this is happening because of me and that it’s my responsibility to give him time to trust me again. It isn’t until my work engagement gets cancelled and I’m finally at home for one of Julien’s weekends at Théo’s that we finally have it out.   
When I show up at the house, suit replaced with baggy surf shorts and a Harvard hoodie and Westley straining at the end of his leash, Théo seems lost for words. He’s standing in the kitchen with a screaming Julien in his arms and a splatter of something mushy in his tangle of black hair. 

“What are you,” he begins, shifting Julien to his opposite hip, but his question is punctuated by another shriek. He breaks off in a stream of soft French, but Julien is evidently not in the mood to be soothed. Thomas races in from the depths of the house brandishing a thermometer and looking as frazzled as Théo.

“I thought you were at work?” he asks, striding across the kitchen to hand the thermometer to Théo.

“He’s supposed to be,” Théo grits out between clenched teeth. His hand is rubbing soothing circles along Julien’s back – a gesture that is wildly contradictory to the hostility radiating in my direction. 

“My meeting got cancelled,” I answer, trying my best to clamp down on my irritation. Emotions are already running high and I don’t want to do anything to upset Julien further. “But I don’t mind staying to help.” 

Théo mutters something under his breath so quietly that I can’t even catch what language it’s in. Throwing up his arms Thomas just closes his mouth, glares at the pair of us, and grabs the squalling Julien out of Théo’s arms to carry him off toward his bedroom. 

“You should probably go,” Théo says coolly before I even have time to ask what’s wrong. 

“Go?” The word comes out nasally and flat and I only have a second to wish I’d said something more impressive before Théo is advancing toward me, eyes flashing. 

“Yes, Jay. Go. Things are a bit hectic around here if you haven’t noticed.” 

It’s the slight hint of an accent that does it: that dropping of the h and soft rounding of the e in ‘hectic’ that keeps me from listening. Or worse, snapping back with something cruel. Instead, I remind myself that Théo’s French accent only leaks out when he’s particularly stressed or upset, so I force myself to breathe, and reach over to pull him into a loose hug. His shoulders are stiff and he’s practically vibrating with unspoken tension. “Stop pushing me away,” I say softly, pleadingly, running my hands over his white knuckles as he steps backward. “Please.”

“Not everything is about you,” he spits back, unwilling or unable to concede any ground. 

I take a small step back, letting my fingers trail out to the tips of his, hoping that he’ll take the initiative and lace them together. 

He doesn’t. 

“Not everything is, but I think this might be.” 

“Well you think wrong.” Théo runs a hand through his hair while the other twitches beside his pocket, searching out the calming rush of nicotine that’s no longer readily available. 

“You can’t keep me away from him forever, Théo. Sooner or later we’re going to have to be in the same room.” 

Clearly this is the wrong thing to say. “He’s my son,” Théo hisses, “and I can do whatever I want.” 

Despite my attempt at calm, something inside me snaps with that comment. “Then tell me what the hell you want! When we got back together you stressed that you were a package deal, and now you’re back to acting as though he doesn’t exist! You’re blocking me out and it’s just not fair.” 

“Nothing about this situation is fair, Jay, that’s the whole point. Will you think it’s fair when you have a huge case and he comes crying at three in the morning? Will you think it’s fair when you wake up to find out that he’s spent an hour ripping up your meticulous notes? Kids don’t deal in fair. They don’t barter or compromise. They don’t fit into neat little boxes.” 

“You think I don’t know that? Do you think that all those points, plus a million others you haven’t been kind enough to point out weren’t running through my mind the instant I found out about Julien? If raising a kid were easy, then we wouldn’t have broken up in the first place.” I take a second to breathe, realizing that I’ve been pacing, and settle against the wall, eyes looking toward the ceiling. “I meant it when I said I wanted to try, Théo.” 

“And what if your trying isn’t enough?” he whispers, anger finally dissipating into despair. “I just keep wondering what the limit is for someone who doesn’t love him as much as I do. I don’t know what people do to stand it when they don’t have that love to fall back on.” 

“I have love for you to fall back on,” I say quietly. “But if you’re not going to trust that that’s enough to keep me here, then why bother?” 

“I do trust you,” Théo replies, but I can tell that even he’s not convinced. “I want to trust you.” 

“Then start right now,” I plead, needing above anything else to fix what I’ve so foolishly broken. “Let me stay.” 

He nods once and reaches out to take my hand from its position against the wall. He turns as if to say something else when Thomas pops back into view, a bottle of dish soap and a roll of paper towels in his hand. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s an impossibly large pile of whatever Julien had for breakfast on the bedroom floor, and there’s no way in hell that I’m going to be the one to clean it.” He shoves his arms toward Théo, who looks at me with some strange mixture of disappointment and presumption. 

“Lead the way,” I announce, refusing to be intimidated by a little mess. And please tell me that those supplies are your idea of a joke.” 

\--

Things start to improve, slowly, but I still can’t shake the feeling that I’m auditioning for someone’s boyfriend. Théo still seems on edge whenever everything isn’t running smoothly and he’s far more likely to call upon Thomas when there’s a crisis than me. Still, his terrified looks decrease with each visit, and he’s much more stressed about the actual hearing – which is less than a month away – than the fact that he thinks I’m one tantrum away from booking a flight back to New York. 

And I’d be lying if I said there weren’t points when I want to get the hell out of Théo’s house as fast as possible. There are nights when all I want to do is sleep past five or be able to make as much noise as I want without worrying that I’m going to traumatize a sleeping toddler. Still, there are also brief instances when I think I can do this. When Julien smiles and his eyes crinkle at the corners like Théo’s, or when he rubs his fingers along the satin edge of his baby blanket, just like his father’s. There is so much of Théo in him that any jealousy over Riley I may have felt quickly dissipates. There is so much of Théo in him that despite any fear and uncertainty I find myself falling in love all over again. 

\--

On the morning of the hearing Théo is a jumbled mess of nerves, unfit to interact with anyone. He wakes me up at four-thirty tearing through his room in search of a hidden pack of cigarettes. The ruckus wakes Julien, who’s spending the morning with Thomas and me while his parents and grandparents are in court. He plods into the room, his tattered green blanket trailing behind him, peering up at Théo with wide eyes. 

As soon as the raspy, “Papa?” leaves his lips, Théo’s shoulders start to shake. I scoop Julien up and settle him onto Théo’s side of the bed while his father makes his way to the ensuite to try to calm down. 

It takes less than a minute for Julien to fall back to sleep, and once I’ve piled a small fortress of pillows around him, I sneak off quietly to find Théo. 

I find him poised over the sink, water dripping from his face onto the counter. If anything, the shaking has gotten worse, and with the dark circles under his eyes he looks like an addict craving a fix. He looks up when he hears my footsteps, and seeing him in such pain almost makes me break down. His looked hollowed out, and the worst part that there’s nothing I can do to make this better. A fresh wave of guilt for the time I’d spent selfishly shutting him out threatens to engulf me, but I push it away, knowing that there are more important things to focus on right now. 

He collapses more than moves when I reach out for him, completely depleted of energy. We sit there on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes before he finally speaks. 

“There was a night, after you left,” he says slowly, “when I knew you’d still be there if he had never been born. I missed you so fucking much and I just wanted you to come back.” 

“Théo –” 

“I hated you for that,” he admits. “And I hated myself for even thinking it, but I never –“ His voice trails off, lost in a swell of emotion and he just lowers his head back onto my shoulder. “What kind of a father thinks something like that?” 

I wrap my arms around him as tightly as I can manage, wishing that this one act could shield him from any further pain. Wishing that I had never given him a reason to doubt himself. “The human kind,” I answer truthfully. “You love him, Théo, more than Riley ever has or will. They’ll see that. They’ll know.” 

“I just don’t want to lose him,” Théo whispers. “Not again.” 

\--

It’s impossible for either of us to sleep, so we carry Julien carefully back to his bed and go down to the kitchen to make coffee. Carson shows up at 6:30, with a new suit, more coffee, and a wife dragging a case full of makeup. They work seamlessly together, transforming a Théo who’s on the edge of a breakdown into someone who looks smart, attractive, and completely sure of himself. 

Not for the first time I wonder what would ever possess someone to go into family law. When I set up a case I only have to worry about myself. There are no witnesses, no bedraggled dads or conniving families; there are only businesses, mergers, and faceless conglomerates that pay enormous sums of money to make sure that I know what the hell I’m doing. Just thinking about leaving control in the hands of a terrified witness has me sweaty and nauseous. Carson, however, is calm and collected. I don’t know if this is how he always looks before a big case, but I choose to believe this can only mean we have a fighting chance. 

Thankfully, Julien is preoccupied with Thomas and a highchair full of cheerios when it’s time to leave; I’m not sure Théo would be able to make it out the door if he had to actually say goodbye to his son. Instead, he just hugs me quickly and departs without a word. Carson tells me not to worry – a laughable piece of advice if there ever was one – and the two of them are gone. 

Once Julien has been cleaned up he leaves for the beach with Lila and the twins, and I collapse on the sofa beside Thomas. He drapes his legs over my lap as he has a million times before, folding his arms behind his head as if he hasn’t a care in the world. His toes, however, are curled into themselves, and I can barely move for the intense pressure of his tightened calf muscles. His body is thrumming with anxiety and it takes nothing more than an eyebrow lift to get him to start talking. 

After the obligatory worrying, Thomas’s face turns pensive. He draws his legs inward, folding them against his chest and resting his chin on his knees. “Do you think that people can change – like, really change?”

“Like Riley, you mean?” 

“Her,” Thomas says, pausing to chew on the string of his hoodie. “Me. You.”

I think of the past thirty years, of how even as a kid I couldn’t stand to be second best at anything. Of how in the sixth grade I’d stayed every day after school to practice typing because there was someone in my class who could do it better than I could. I see years of scrubbing floors, studying with a system of properly colored pens, and walking home from bars alone. 

“No,” I answer. 

I catch the small slump of Thomas’s shoulders and then think of when I first met him, flirting with me on the side of the road. I think of Théo, grumpy and rude as he drove me to the hospital. I think of Julien, face lighting up whenever Théo enters a room, and the way he picks his cheerios up with stubby little fingers. I think of Thomas’s face whenever Rajiv speaks, of how his eyes only follow one person now, and how he brightens whenever he gets a new text. “And yes,” I amend. “I think that there are some things you can’t change about yourself; there are some things so ingrained that it’ll cause more damage than good to try to root them out. Still, I think that sometimes there are situations or people that make you want to change, and it’s the actual process of trying that makes the difference.” 

“And is that what we’re doing?” Thomas asks, sliding a little closer. “Trying?” 

“As hard as we can,” I say, leaning over to accept a soft kiss. “Harder than we’ve ever tried for anything.”

\--

The house is still quiet when we finally hear the purr of Théo’s engine and the soft fall of footsteps on the walkway. Thomas and I scramble to the door with identical looks of panic, trying to discern from the crunching of gravel what the outcome could have been. 

Théo walks in, his face blank, and my heart plummets. Still, while it’s not the joyful homecoming I’d hoped for, it’s not the tearful reunion I’d been dreading either. He stops directly in front of me, and when he looks up he looks impossibly young. Younger than Thomas by half. 

“I won,” he says quietly, bracing himself as if expecting everything to disappear around him. 

I can’t speak, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stand there, rooted in place. Thomas, however, lets out a whoop and crashes into the two of us. “I think it speaks for how much I’ve grown as a person that I’m not even going to mention a celebratory threesome.” 

Théo laughs, the sound bursting from him like something that’s been caged. He finally relaxes and falls forward into my arms, pushing Thomas away as he moves. “Go get Julien,” he says, ignoring Thomas’s accusations of bossiness to wrap his arms around me.

“Please tell me you’re happy,” he says, burying his face in my neck. I shiver as his hair tickles my skin and glance out the huge bay windows, where I can see Thomas scoop Julien into his arms and twist him around in circles. 

For all the time I’ve spent agonizing over my words, of carefully constructing opening statements and crafting arguments, I find myself unable to speak. There’s nothing I can think of to explain how much they’ve done for me. I was broken when I came here; I was a husk of a person when Alec left, and I really thought that I’d never recover. It was Thomas, with his flailing limbs and sorry inneundos, and Théo – bright, imperfect, bossy Théo – who brought me back to life when I didn’t think such a thing was possible. 

“I’ve never been happier,” I answer, pulling him in for a kiss. When we break apart I lace my fingers through his and pull him toward the door so that we can meet Thomas and Julien on the beach. So that we can finally all be together. So that we can finally be a family.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Laura, as always.

There is a special ring of hell, I think as I finish my ten minute tidying of the crayon display, for people who inappropriately shelf items at department stores. I glance at my cart – now a receptacle for the three coffee cups, the empty candy bag, and the half-used tube of toothpaste that I’ve found stuffed on the metal shelves of the Back To School section at Target – and sigh.

The embarrassment of having Théo find out about my waste-control issues is nothing compared to the fact that I’ve apparently become _this_ person: the person who shops at Target.

Théo’s last words of the morning – _you don’t have to always try so hard_ – echo as I flip through the bright sets of scissors, trying to find a pair in Julien’s favorite color. It was said with the breezy indifference of someone who never needs to second-guess his decisions – someone well used to making choices without the tight, muscle-pinching weight of uncertainty lodged on the back of his skull. I’ve ordered my own office supplies from the same online retailer for years; I can’t even remember the last time I had to walk through the aisles myself, agonizing over colors and quantity.

I take out the paper sent by Julien’s teacher that morning – _Necessary Supplies for Ms. Mill’s Kindergarten Class_ – and smooth out the slightly wrinkled edges. There, in presumably what’s Ms. Mill’s signature font, since it’s also splattered all over the orientation package, is the neatly typed list outlining the exact items every child is expected to have. _For all the new parents_ , the line at the bottom reads, _be mindful of the fact that supplies tend to run out before the last week of August_! There’s a picture right underneath of a bird and worm that had made Théo snort into his cup of coffee that morning.

He’d full-out laughed when I informed him that I’d be doing this supply run right after breakfast.

Pausing to snap a few pictures of the lunchboxes – Julien will want to pick his own, I’m sure – I barely notice the toddler that lurches toward the shelf in front of me. He reaches out and nabs a Paw Patrol coloring pad, squealing with delight as his father – eyes wide and shoulders tight, in the manner of all Dads with runaway children – scoops him up from the floor. The boy can’t be any more than two – the same age that Julien was when I’d first learned of his existence. This boy, frizzy-haired and blonde, with large blue eyes that seemed to take up half of his face, looks nothing like Julien did, but parts of him are intensely familiar: the rounded belly, creased wrists, and drunken gait. Those similarities are enough to elicit a wave of nostalgia that tugs at my chest.

I swear, Julien was exactly that size _yesterday_ , and now he’s going to Kindergarten.

All at once, the prospect of what’s happening becomes _real_ , and I feel the prickling sting of unshed tears. My throat burns as I pluck a pack – the _wrong_ pack – of colored pencils from a display. I toss them into the cart and then turn on my heels, needing to escape. I scan the aisles for the kitchenware section, looking for a distraction.

I refuse to become the kind of person who _cries_ at Target.

\--

Over the years I’ve become adept at recognizing the signs of other people’s annoyance. Though it’s a trait bred from painful experience, it’s actually proven to be an asset; there’s an inherent value in being able to read cues that people try their best to keep hidden.

Right now it’s particularly easy – probably because Théo isn’t trying to hide much of anything.

Ostensibly, he’s reading through a book that he’s supposed to review with his class tomorrow afternoon. There’s a blank notepad on the table, and if the lack of random scribbles and notes isn’t enough to clue me in that something’s wrong, the way he’s tearing through the pages, flicking each one as if it has caused him some grievous offence, is proof that I’ve been talking too long.

The unfortunate thing – at least if you’re me – is that recognizing the warning signs and being able to stop them from progressing are two entirely different skillsets.

“Are you sure you left a message?”

Theo tenses before I’ve even finished talking, and after a particularly violent swipe of a page, he lets his book fall to the table.

“Yes, Jay,” he hisses, kicking his chair out from the island. “I’m sure I left a message.”

I wrench open an overflowing kitchen drawer – I _swear_ I just organized it last week – and paw furiously through the pile of cookie-cutters, seeing everything but the one I need. As I push a spatula toward the back of the drawer, there’s a creak from upstairs that has me frozen in an instant. I wait for the sound of shuffling and the quiet brush of fingers against the bannister, but thankfully they don’t come. Julien, a light sleeper at the best of times, was nearly buzzing with excitement when we put him to bed tonight. He’s been looking forward to the first day of Kindergarten for months, and I’m shocked that he was able to fall asleep at all.

I finally find the cookie cutter I’m looking for – a neon green tyrannosaurus – and push the drawer close with a bump of my hip and a triumphant cry. Théo, who’s been doing his best to ignore me for the better part of an hour, looks perplexed.

“What are you doing?”

Forgoing the easy – and obvious – response, I just move the sunflower-butter and jelly sandwich from the counter over to the island. Then, pointedly ignoring Théo, I proceed to cut it into two tiny tyrannosaur pieces.

“Finishing Julien’s lunch.”

Théo glances from the sandwich to the tower of Dinosaur-themed Tupperware that sits by the fridge, already packed and ready to go into his Jurassic-themed lunchbox.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, which leaves me to worry about all the things he _could_ be thinking.

When he does speak, his voice is soft and careful. “Jay, is that a _second_ lunch?”

It’s a third, but there’s no way in hell I’m admitting to that, so I just turn my back and set about placing the sandwich into the tiny bento container that we’d picked out the week before.

“It’s his favorite,” I say, carefully slicing up a handful of grapes and plopping them into a tiny silicone holder. “He might not be in the mood for pasta tomorrow.”

Instead of arguing, or questioning, or pointing out the complete absurdity of the moment, he just slips out of his chair and walks around to join me on the opposite side of the island. He waits a moment while I neatly pack in the pretzel sticks and tiny cheese, and then propels himself up onto the counter.

As soon as the bento lid is snapped tight, he snags my arm, dragging me over to stand between his legs. Wordlessly, he pushes an errant curl back from the center of my forehead, and just waits.

“He might want something familiar,” I say, feeling ridiculous. Julien has been going to daycare for nearly a year now. He’s never had trouble with separation anxiety and he’s more excited about tomorrow than I can ever remember being as a kid. He’s going to be fine.

“He might,” Théo agrees before tugging me forward.

I give myself a second to fall into the kiss. To enjoy the brush of Théo’s tongue against my lips and the way his legs wrap around my waist. I give myself a second to shiver through the light pressure of his hands against my skin before pulling away.

It’s not that I don’t _want_ to keep kissing. With the way Théo is pressing into me, the kissing could quickly escalate into _something more_ , and with the stress of Kindergarten on the horizon, _something more_ hasn’t happened for far too long. I _want_ to hook my hands under Théo’s shirt and peel it away slowly. I _want_ to let him try to ease the ever-mounting tension. But I’ve long since accepted that what I _want_ and what I _do_ rarely align. And as such, the words that have been cycling through my mind on a constant loop tumble out unbidden, beyond any conscious control.

“Are you sure you left a message?”

“ _Jesus_ , Jay.” Théo pulls away, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I told you I left a message. In fact, I left _three_ messages. She’s not calling back.”

I busy myself with tidying up the sandwich crumbs from the counter. “She said that she would come. She told Julien she would be there, and he’s expecting that.”

When Théo looks at me, it’s with the same mixture of pity and love that he reserves for his son when he’s hoping for something impossible. I want to feel angry – I’m a goddamn adult, after all – but I resist the urge. A couple of years ago I probably would have snapped something hurtful and Théo would have retaliated with the kind of pointed remark that stung for hours afterward. We would have argued and then apologized and then ended up tangled on the bed or the couch or the hallway, sated and sorry.

Now, Théo first takes a deep breath and then takes my hand.

“Hey,” he says, cupping my cheek gently. “You’ve done everything you can.” He gestures toward the pile of food and then over to the table, where Julien’s backpack is waiting, already packed for the following morning. “You’ve done _everything_.”

I mumble a reply, unable to quell the part of me that says that _it’s not enough_.

After pressing a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth Theo buries his head into my shoulder, pulling me close. “You can’t take responsibility for her actions, Jay.”

The _you should know that by now_ remains unsaid.

“You can’t control everything.”

I know that he’s trying to be comforting. I know that I’m being unrealistic and that I shouldn’t let any of this bother me. I know I should take his hand and go upstairs and try to get some sleep. I know all of these things, and yet it doesn’t _change_ anything.

Théo presses a quick kiss to the end of my hand before dropping it with a soft sigh. “Try to get some sleep,” he says before turning to head up the stairs.

I watch him leave, wishing that I could just follow behind. Wishing that if I did, sleep would come easily. Wishing that Riley would just answer her goddamned phone.

\--

I wake up on the couch an hour before Théo’s alarm with a crick in my neck and a pounding ache in my head. The skin of my knuckles stings, the skin pulled taught and cracked, but my moisturizer is in the ensuite and I don’t want to risk waking Théo. Instead, I head to the kitchen and grab a glass of orange juice and the stegosaurus-shaped notepad and scribble a quick message. _Will be back with bagels – don’t start breakfast without me!_

I take the Audi, forgoing practicality for the smooth purr of its engine – less likely to wake either of my boys – and because I don’t trust that the gas tank in the SUV to get me to the end of the street. Thomas didn’t get back until I’d already passed out last night, and I’d be willing to bet the entire car that he hadn’t stopped to gas up.

Though it’s barely six, traffic has already started to pick up. Luckily, I’m driving against the flow, and the miles just melt away. One of Théo’s CD’s is in the player – three years later and I still don’t understand more than a few words, but the raspy French is soothing.

I pull into the now-familiar driveway, throwing the handbrake up with particular force as I convince myself that blaring the horn would only upset the neighbors. I disconnect the call that’s going through on my cell – the sixth over the course of the drive, and stride up to the door. It takes a full minute of knocking before Riley appears, eyes clouded with sleep and a long robe trailing on the floor behind her.

She doesn’t realize it’s me until the door’s already open – a good thing, because I’m not fully convinced that she would have answered otherwise.

I have to give her this much: when she’s sober, it’s incredibly difficult to read anything on Riley’s face. She’s mastered the blank stare, and the only sign that she’s less than pleased to see me is the slight flaring of her nostrils as she leans against the frame.

“What the hell do you want?” She pauses, and then tacks on as an afterthought, “do you even know what time it is?”

“I’m aware,” I answer, slipping my hands into my pockets, relishing in the bite of nail against skin. “Though I’d like to point out that this impromptu visit wouldn’t have been necessary if you’d just pick up your damn phone.”

I wait for her reply – her excuse – holding back all the things I want to say. All the things I _should_ say. She’s ignored no fewer than twenty calls – _twenty_ calls, which could have been about her son. He could have been hurt – could have needed her – and she would have been no wiser, all because she can’t stand the fact that she’s six months sober and Théo hasn’t come running back.

“I told Théo the last time this happened that I’m not at his beck and call – not anymore.”

Though I know it’s for my benefit, the pointed comment does nothing. Whereas three years ago it would have sent me into a tailspin of insecurity, it now only highlights how desperately Riley wants to get under my skin.

“You’re actually looking at the guilty party,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “I’ve been trying to reach you for nearly a week.”

Riley smirks, dragging her hand down the frame of her door. “And here I was thinking you didn’t swing that way.”

“I’m not in the mood for this, Riley. It’s Julien’s first day of Kindergarten today. He’s expecting you to be there.”

For the first time her features shift, but she does nothing but cross her arms and give a long, lazy sigh.

I struggle to keep my voice even. I don’t know how this has become my life: standing in front of the one person I can’t stand, begging her to spend _more_ time with my family. “You promised that you’d be there.”

Riley pointedly looks at her nails as she responds. Hunched over, with the oversized robe pooling on the floor around her, she looks no older than a child herself. “A thirty second interlude isn’t going to make or break his big day. I think I’ll pass – wouldn’t want to intrude on happy family time.”

“You’re his _mother_ ,” I snap, fighting to maintain control. “And he wants you there. That means you should _be_ there.” I dig my keys out of my pocket and unlock the Audi with a quick click. Riley’s Escalade still sits in the driveway, but the incident that finally propelled her into a genuine fight for sobriety precludes her from driving for another six months.

“There’s a latte waiting for you in the car,” I say, turning around before she can argue. “You’ve got ten minutes to get ready, or else the traffic is going to be torture.”

\--

The drive home stretches on in an endless, awkward silence. Riley had grinned over Théo’s stupid CD, and I’d ejected it quickly enough that her smirk had unfurled into a full-blown smile. As I listen to her nails clicking against my newly-washed window – something I knew she was doing intentionally – I remind myself that this is for _Julien_. That he will be beyond ecstatic to wake up and find his mother in the kitchen.

His father is another story.

Théo texts me as soon as I pull into The Rocket, our favorite bakery. Riley, who wants to be sharing a car even less than I do, takes the proffered twenty-dollar bill and hurries in with a hastily scribbled list of things to get.

I dutifully shut off the car and then quickly dial Théo’s number.

“I hope you’re not too far away,” Théo says instead of a _hello_. His voice is raspy and sleep-soaked, and after three years just hearing his voice shouldn’t have such a profound effect on me, but it _does_. “Julien found the parfaits that you made for breakfast and I don’t know how much longer he’s going to wait.” There’s a brief pause, and when Théo speaks again his voice is full of the same concern that he’d displayed the night before.

“Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Some,” I reassure him – and it’s not a lie. Forty-five minutes on the couch is, technically, _some_ sleep. “Théo, listen I need to tell you –”

“Unless it’s that you have extra _pain au chocolat_ , then I don’t want to hear it,” he says, and I can hear him mutter something in French to Julien.

“I’ve got them,” I say, steeling myself for Théo’s inevitable reply. “Riley’s gone in to pick them up right now.”

The line is silent. I inhale once, twice, and just as I’m sure I can explain myself without getting upset, Théo speaks.

“She’s coming here with you?”

His voice is tight and tense and for a single, horrible instant I have the feeling that this is _wrong_. That I’ve broken some unspoken rule and that I’ve ruined everything.

“We’ll be there in ten,” I answer. The Rocket’s door swings open, and Riley steps out, her skin bright and dewy, a bright smile on her face. It drops away when she sees me, but in that instant I catch a glimpse of the girl that Théo fell in love with. The girl that he could have been sharing this day – and all these milestones – with instead of me. I reach over and unlock the doors with purpose, refraining from restarting the car until she’s inside, mostly because I don’t know if I can resist driving off and leaving her alone in this parking lot.

Théo’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts, and I realize that he’s been talking this whole time. “See you soon,” I say breezily. And then, as soon as Riley closes her door, “I love you.”

I know it’s petty and calculated and she can probably see right through it, but I’ve had a rough twenty-four hours. In retaliation, she takes a pastry out and bites down it slowly, paying no attention to the crumbs that cascade down onto my pristine leather seats.

I take out my sunglasses and slip them on, giving no indication that I’ve even noticed she’s back in the car. Then I flick to whatever station is playing the latest pop hits and up to the volume until the sound of her chewing disappears.

\--

Julien is waiting just outside the door when we arrive. Théo, who looks tense but far better rested than me – or Riley, for that matter – is sitting on the step, scowling into his cup of coffee.

“Mom!” Julien is halfway across the driveway before Riley is even out of the car, and she greets him with an identical huge smile. “Can you believe that today is the day?”

“Not even a little,” she says, ruffling a hand through his dark curls. “Are you sure that it’s this year? Maybe we messed it up.”

He looks up at her, brown eyes wide and earnest. “Oh, I’m quite sure.”

I bite back a smile, meeting Théo’s eyes across the driveway. His lips also quirk up in a grin, though he turns his head as soon as he realizes I’m watching. Once he’s in control of his expression he quirks an eyebrow, which I just counter with a slight shrug.

He mutters something in French and stands up to greet me in the driveway. Julien has already begun to pull Riley inside, chattering on and on about lunchboxes and dinosaurs, and Théo reaches out to pull me into a hug.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he says. His stubble drags across my neck as he speaks, and the smell wafting up from his coffee cup is amazing. “And I know it couldn’t have been easy.”

It wasn’t, but I don’t need to confirm in order for Théo to know that he’s right. I just pull him a little closer, letting the feeling of his body against mine soothe the agitation that’s been mounting all morning.

“Let’s go eat some breakfast,” I say, and we follow the sound of Julien’s voice straight into the kitchen.

The pair of them are sitting at the island, and Riley is watching with rapt attention as Julien carefully pulls each piece of school supplies out of his backpack, giving her the full rundown on what they’re all for and how much he likes them.

I’m trying not to be too obvious, focusing instead on the soft brush of Théo’s ankle against mine as we share one of the blueberry parfaits I’d put together a couple of hours ago, so I don’t hear Thomas’s descent from above until a shriek rings out across the kitchen.

“Uncle Tommy?” Julien’s reedy voice is filled with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Thomas waltzes around Julien, flicking him on the nose as he grabs a pastry from the crinkled paper bag. “Nothing at all, buddy. I walked down the steps and I thought I was having a nightmare. I could have sworn I saw a velociraptor.”

“Uncle Tommy,” Julien says, just holding back a giggle. Riley’s glare is just visible over the top of Julien’s curly hair. That wouldn’t be a nightmare. That would be the _best_.”

“Pretty sure you’re the only one that thinks so, little dude,” Tommy says, ignoring the covert middle finger that Riley flashes as soon as Julien’s head is turned.

Thomas takes a massive bite of the pastry, failing to look at all chagrined as the crumbs rain down around him. He slides into the seat next to mine, lifting his cold feet and stuffing them under my legs.

“I thought we agreed that martyrdom was _so_ two centuries ago?” He snakes his hand out, stealing Théo’s coffee cup before either of us can do anything about it.

“What we all need to remember,” I say, getting up from my chair to go and wipe up the trail of crumbs, “is that this is Julien’s special day.” I level a glare across the island, noting with no small measure of satisfaction that while they don’t look happy about it, everyone straightens up.

“It’s the most special day,” Julien agrees, nodding sagely. “Special enough for three lunches!”

“Three lunches?” Thomas gets up and makes a show of inspecting Julien’s front. “I’m not sure there’s even room enough for _one_ lunch in this scrawny little middle.”

“We don’t call it a _middle_ ,” Julien scolds in his best approximation of Thomas’s accent. “We call it an _abdomen_.”

As the table bursts into laughter, Julien lights up. He’s delighted to have provoked such a reaction, even if he’s not really sure how or why. He spends so much time around adults that he has no idea how extraordinary he really is; I try to just enjoy the moment along with everyone else, and to shut down the part of my brain that serves to harshly remind me of how hard it is for anyone – especially a precocious five year old with two dads and a strange accent – to be extraordinary.

The attempt is unsuccessful, and along with failure comes a barrage of negative thoughts.

Maybe we should have tried harder to integrate him with other kids. Maybe we should have focused more on swimming or hockey or _something_ other than the endless books and days spent inside. Maybe _I_ should have –

“Jay?”

I look up from the floor to find Julien’s face only inches from mine. “Is it okay if I show _Maman_ my dino sandwich?”

“Of course it is.” I squeeze the words out over numb lips, letting his bright smile and barely-discernable lisp work to ease the tension. Julien is _kind_. He’s polite and he’s funny and he’s full of frenetic energy – he’s so many of the things I wasn’t, and he’s going to be fine.

I figure if I repeat that last part enough times, I’ll actually start to believe it.

\--

We take the minivan to school. It’s almost worth it, to see the look of pure horror that crosses Thomas’s face as he realizes that he’s expected to tag along with us.

“Don’t you care anything for my _reputation_?” he moans piteously, giving the Audi a look of unrepentant despair. “I can’t believe I’m setting foot in this monstrosity.”

Théo rolls his eyes and kicks the backs of Thomas’s knees as he climbs into his seat. “You’re always free to walk.”

“Then you’d miss out on my first day,” Julien says, looking as somber as is possible when clutching a book about dinosaurs that’s almost the length of his body.

“Unacceptable, that!” Thomas says, caving with an indulgent smile. I lean over to flick the radio to Julien’s favorite channel, and Riley straps herself into the furthest seat back, oddly subdued. I notice the split-second that Théo catches her eye in the rearview mirror, and the nearly-imperceptible tightening of his hands on the steering wheel, but I don’t say anything. I don’t do anything but snake my hand across to the other side, palm up.

Some frantic, heated part of me finally settles as Théo threads our fingers together.

\--

The drop-off is so much busier than I expected. Wedgewood Prepartory is small – only twenty kids per classroom – but the courtyard is still teeming with nervous parents. There are tables set up all over the foyer with _PTA_ and _Fundraising Committee_ and _Swim Team_ splashed in hand-painted banners and neatly dressed women sitting behind nearly all of them. I walk by slowly, scanning each table with rapt attention.

A shadow falls across my face and suddenly Riley is there, her leather jacket pulled on over her dress and her lipstick freshly applied. “Shouldn’t be surprised that you’re itching to join the mommy-squad, Mr. Roboto.”

Théo, who’s been watching Tommy navigate Julien toward a table that’s showcasing therapy dogs, turns to snarl at Riley. But before he can snap – and say something he can’t take back – I gently grab his wrist. To be honest, even if we weren’t in the middle of a school parking lot, on a list of insulting comments she’s ever made toward me, this one ranks pretty low. Her voice lacks its usual heat and even the words themselves sound forced.

“Oh, settle down, Théo,” Riley says when he just huffs and turns away. She runs a finger through her hair, adding a bit of unneeded volume. She doesn’t really fit in here – not with the cookie-cutter moms with their bleached blonde hair and too-wide smiles – but I’m sure that’s one of the things that drew Theo toward her, once.

She folds her arms across her chest, looking a little like a defiant pixie. “And don’t pretend you weren’t thinking it too. Jay is _totally_ going to join the mom-squad.”

There’s a brief pause. “It’s the kind of thing he’ll be good at.”

She leaves before either of us can reply, strutting toward Tommy and Julien, drawing the eyes of many a parent as she parts her way through the crowd.

“That was –” Théo stutters out, unsubtly looking me over.

“– Probably really hard for her,” I finish. We stand there together for a second, taking in the sights. Watching Riley catch up to Tommy and Julien. Noticing how Tommy tries his best, all in an effort to keep Julien happy. That’s what we all want, really.

“Come on,” I add, threading my hand through Théo’s once again. “It’s time to start networking.”

I know that Théo intends his snort to be derisive – dismissive of this subculture and the competitive environment it breeds – but I also catch the way his face settles into a soft smile. “ _D’accord_ ,” he says softly, rubbing his thumb along the edge of my hand, enjoying the reaction it provokes. “Let’s go.”

\--

I make it through the first day. And the second. And the third. The weeks of September pass in a flurry of curated lunches, fatigue-induced tantrums, and a crash-course in fundraising for the primary school set. If I’d ever thought that firm get-togethers were cut-throat, they have nothing on the sharp-edged politics of the Kindergarten PTA.

What’s worse, is that as Julien gets more embroiled in his burgeoning social life, things at the firm spiral out of control. On top of my weekly class at UCLA I’ve got a full load of cases, one of which I’m supposed to get ready for trial next month. September trickles into October, and Theo has to cover for me twice at school-related functions. While Théo does most of his work from home, both Julien and I finish our long days out of the house overstimulated and overtired, and it’s completely overwhelming. Though the aching fear of sending Julien out into the world has settled, I still wonder if Kindergarten might kill me.

It’s the second week in October when I finally get some downtime. I’ve made a deal with Brent, one of the other lawyers at the firm, so that each of us can get a long weekend to spend with our families. I’ve timed it to coincide with the first Family Day at Wedgewood, and after spending the day with Julien, he’s going to spend the weekend with his mother while Théo and I head up the coast for a night alone.

I try not to count the number of days that have passed since I’ve seen my boyfriend naked, because it’s incredibly fucking depressing.

It’s nearly midnight on the Thursday before our long weekend and I’m waiting for my last batch of cupcakes to come out of the oven. Everything at Wedgewood has to be nut-free – though the parents also prefer dairy and gluten-free options – so all the bake sale items have to be made from scratch. What’s more, is that the two kids that Julien has imprinted on – his _best friends ever_ , he’d told me earlier that week – have dietary accommodations. Though I’m pretty sure that Marion’s mother has her on a gluten-free diet because she’d read on some pseudo-science website that it could raise your kid’s IQ, Julien had promised _both_ of his best friends special lemon Dinosaur cupcakes, so special lemon dinosaur cupcakes they both will get. Théo, of course, finds the whole enterprise excessive and ridiculous, but I actually think it’s kind of nice, being able to contribute something tangible when I’ve missed so much of what’s been happening at the school.

I just wish that I had more _time_. It’s going to take at least another hour – maybe more – to get these finished, and that’s not even considering the clean-up. Julien is going to be up by six, which means that my sleep-window is rapidly dwindling.

I’ve just separated the two most recent batches – dairy-free and gluten-free – into their separate decorating stations when the phone rings. I load up the article I’d saved on Pinterest after making the peanut-free batch and pick up without even glancing at the caller.

“Hello?”

“James. I know it’s late.” It’s Diana, Riley’s mother. “I’m sorry to give such short notice – ”

My heart sinks before she’s even finished her sentence. I fumble the bag of icing that’s in my hand, and lose half a batch of homemade buttercream over the edge of the counter. What’s worse, is that shoots over multiple surfaces, and so there’s no way I can be sure it hasn’t been cross-contaminated. I barely hear Diana’s stream of apologies, and as soon as she hangs up I flick the phone across the counter with a strangled, “fuck!”

This, of course, is the moment that Théo decides to come and see if I’m ready for bed.

He’s rumpled and groggy, with the imprint of his pillow etched into his cheek, meaning that he’d once again fallen asleep waiting for me. He’s got a book clutched in his hand and his hair is a tangled mess of waves that I want nothing more than to sink my fingers into. He looks _amazing_ , and guilt curdles in my gut because I know that he wants me to just go to bed with him for _once_ this fucking month, and it’s not going to happen.

“You know,” he says, accent throaty and thick as it only is when he’s exhausted or drunk, “I don’t want to ask, but you just look so sad, standing there with your spilled icing.”

“Diana called,” I say, not feeling the need to explain the icing fiasco. “They can’t take Julien for the weekend.”

For a second, Théo just stands there. He shuffles over toward the island, and part of me wants to reach out. To salvage what’s left of this moment, to turn it into something tender. I want to just bury my head into his neck, and let the reassuring weight of him ground me. Instead, I just furiously scrape the icing from the counter and get the ingredients out to make another batch. The cupboard slams, and Théo jumps as the noise reverberates throughout the kitchen.

“You could leave the door attached,” he snaps, fatigue lending perfectly to his signature brand of defensive irritation. “Or better yet, you could just leave this crap alone and actually get some sleep for once.”

“I can’t just stop – I told Julien that I would make these.”

Théo walks over and pulls open the fridge. “Is there something wrong with those twenty-four?” He studies the cupcakes for a brief interval, before rounding back on me. “You need _sleep_ , Jay. You’ve been working yourself to death for weeks, just so you could take these days off. You’re not a machine – you need to rest.”

“I told Julien I would make cupcakes for his friends,” I answer, refusing to bend.

“I saw Marion eat a bagel last week!” Théo hisses. “And Aidan’s mother is a hypochondriac. I’m pretty sure he had a stomachache once after a glass of milk and now the poor little kid is never allowed to eat ice cream again. It’s unbelievable.”

Théo reaches over, plucking a washcloth out of my hand. “Some of these parents are _intense_ ,” he says. “And I don’t want you to get caught up in all that. Not when you’re already so – ”

His voice falters, but the silence cuts almost as deeply as whatever word he was going to say. I can practically see what he’s thinking: a thousand permutations of a thousand scenarios where I had taken something simple and turned it into a catastrophe.

“Too what?” I mean for my words to have bite, but they just fall flat between us. “Too crazy?”

“ _Non_.” Théo moves over to pull me into a hug. “High-strung, maybe. Perfectionistic, definitely.” He pulls back to look at me for a second and then leans in to brush his lips against mine. “You care so much,” he says, “and I love that. I love you. But I’m also worried about you. You need to come up to bed.”

Théo smells so good and I’m so tired that bed honestly sounds like heaven. But I can’t do it. I can’t go back on my word.

“I promised Julien I would have cupcakes for Marion and Aidan.”

“Okay, then. Let’s do this.”

My head snaps up, and for a second I think I’ve misheard. Before I can react, Théo takes a single dairy-free and a single gluten-free cupcake and moves them over to the far end of the island. Then he sweeps the others over the edge of the counter and straight into the trash.

“Théo, what the hell – ”

“Those are two cupcakes. One for each of Julien’s friends. Now,” – he jumps up on the island and grabs the spatula and the bowl of icing – “let’s get these finished so that we can go to bed.”

“Théo, you don’t have – ”

“Hey.” Théo reaches out and pulls me close, wrapping his legs around my waist as he kisses me, soft and slow. “Let’s do this together. Tomorrow’s going to be a long day.”

“I’m sorry about this weekend.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he says sweetly, resting his head against my shoulder. His arms dangle loosely around my neck and I honestly can’t imagine what my life would be like if I didn’t have him. “Tommy loves hanging out with Julien and he knows we made these reservations a month ago. Things will work out.”

 _Things will work out_. It’s a sentiment I’d never believed in, before. I’ve worked so hard my entire life precisely because I don’t _believe_ that you can trust in the universe to ensure success or happiness. But right now, with Théo pressed against me, I decide that I can give the universe a break. I can at least accept the slight possibility that things may indeed work out.

\--

The rest of the fall passes relatively smoothly. Our weekend away, along with leaving me blissed out and sore for days, ensure that I get a few nights of proper rest, which I put to good use both at work and at home. With the exception of a group Thanksgiving – during which I’m sure Théo’s hands left permanent imprints on the edge of Riley’s dinner table – that pushed the boundaries of comfort for most involved, life has been running smoothly.

The first weekend in December is Théo’s Grandmother, Severine’s, birthday, and he’d pulled Julien out of school for a day so that the pair of them could fly to France for a long weekend to surprise her. Though I had a lovely time when we all went together the year before, I’m trying to bank as many hours at work as I can to free up some extra time around Christmas. With Raj in India for a wedding and Thomas also stuck here for work, we have an entire week to waste away together without any other responsibilities.

That’s how I find myself in nothing but a t-shirt and boxers, drinking beer straight out of the can and waiting for Thomas to get home with the pizza he’d left to pick up nearly twenty minutes ago. It feels a bit like my earliest days in Los Angeles, minus the embarrassing pining and sense of impending doom.

Out of any sort of practice with alcohol and slightly buzzed from the minimal day drinking, I make the mistake of rifling through my bag until I find the tiny package I’ve been carrying for the better part of a week.

I hadn’t even planned to buy it. I’d been downtown to pick up a package for Severine, and I’d seen it on display and thought _Théo_. In a burst of uncharacteristic spontaneity, I’d bought it on the spot.

To anyone else, the ring probably wouldn’t be particularly special. It’s a thin, platinum band, but what had caught my eye was the slight curve near the top. I could immediately picture it on Théo’s finger, the small notch aligning with the tiny scar he’d gotten when one of his Grandmother’s goats had bitten him as a child. Drunk and sentimental, I’d kissed that scar last year on New Year’s Eve, letting my mouth linger for just a moment too long. It had shocked Théo into silence, my mouth on his ring finger. It’s the closest thing to a discussion of marriage that we’ve ever had.

I flip the box over in my hand, wondering what the hell I’m doing. I can feel a familiar wave of uncertainty starting to crest, and to stop from ruining my buzz altogether, I shift to put the ring back in my bag. Of course, Thomas picks that time to barge in with a loud, “hope you’re hungry, Princess!” and the box flies out of my hand and across the living room floor. I scramble after it, trying to snatch it up before Thomas can catch a glimpse of what’s inside.

Stealth has never been my strong suit.

Instead of swiping the box and shoving it back in my pocket, I end up on my knees in front of Thomas, grasping onto the black box as if it’s about to detonate.

When I look up, Thomas is gaping down, struck speechless for what’s probably the first time in his life. He recovers quickly though, and squats down to the floor so that we’re face to face.

“I’m flattered really,” he says, leaning in to give me a quick kiss on the cheek, “but haven’t you heard? I’m off the market these days.”

I reach out and give him a sharp push, feeling only minimally apologetic when he topples over with a yelp. He reaches out a hand for me to pull him up, but instead I just pick up the pizza boxes and make my way to the kitchen.

He’s up and running behind me within seconds.

I reach into the fridge to grab two cans of beer and when I turn around he’s directly in my face. “Are we supposed to just not talk about this?”

When I don’t answer he grabs one of the beers and pops the top. “Because I don’t think I’ll be very good at that. This is like that time that obnoxious prick from your firm who wouldn’t take no for an answer got sloshed and sent me that horrible – ”

“Thomas,” I interrupt. “Are you seriously comparing the fact that I’ve purchased an _engagement ring_ to a random dick pic you were sent last year?”

Thomas takes sip from his beer, grinning like an imp over the top of the can. “It was a very underwhelming dick from a very overwhelming personality.”

“If you’re not going to take this seriously, I’m not going to talk about it.” I grab a piece of pizza out of the box and put it on one of the plates Thomas has just taken out of the cupboard. Then, turning on my heel before he can get a word in, I head back into the living room.

Thomas takes his time, and when he finally makes it in to sink down on the couch beside me, he has three pieces of pizza and an extra beer.

“What?” He scowls at my raised eyebrow and then sets his items down in neat pile. “I figured that if this is the way your horribly repressed subconscious wants to force me to talk about you proposing, that I might as well accept that I’m in this for the long haul.”

As if to accentuate his point he burrows down into the cushions and looks at me expectantly.

I throw a wad of napkins at his face, annoyed when he dodges them easily. “You’re incredibly annoying,” I grouse.

“Don’t think you can smolder-pout you’re way out of this,” Thomas replies, which only serves to prove my point. “You know you want to talk about this, so let’s talk about it.”

Though I really didn’t mean for Thomas to find out – at least, not like this – that doesn’t mean he’s wrong. I _do_ want to talk about this – in fact, I need to talk about this.

Thomas puts his pizza to the side and flips around so that his head is in my lap.

“So how long have you been carrying that thing around?”

“Not long,” I admit. “Just over a week.”

Thomas nods, and his eyes flutter shut as I slowly start to work my hands through his hair. It had taken us a while to establish how and when to touch each other, but it’s nice to be able to share this type of intimacy without sexualizing it. Thomas is a creature of physical comfort, and I find the repetitive movements soothing.

“And what?” He keeps his voice low and soft, free now of anything but open curiosity. “It’s just been burning a hole in your bag ever since?”

“What if –” My voice cracks embarrassingly and Thomas is up with his head pressed close to mine before I can suck in a ragged breath. “What if there’s a _reason_ we haven’t been able to talk about this, Thomas? What if this isn’t something that he wants?”

“What?” Thomas scoffs. “A ring? I’m sure if it really came down to it he could give a good goddamn about the ring. But the promise of a lifetime with you – only you? If you haven’t realized that that’s the _only_ thing he wants, then all those years of higher education have been for absolutely nothing.”

Though I know that on some intellectual level that he’s right, that realization doesn’t fully extinguish the small spark of doubt that’s made a nice comfortable home deep down in my chest.

“Hey.” Thomas rests a hand against my cheek. “It’s okay for you to be scared – you know that right? It doesn’t mean that you’re not ready or that you’re unsure. It just means that this is _important_. When in your life have you ever done something worthwhile that didn’t mess with your head a little first?”

I choke out a laugh, unaware until that moment how tight my throat has gotten.

Thomas bumps his head against mine gently, and then pulls away to restake his claim on his heaping pile of pizza. “Excellent,” he says, after chewing his way through an enormous bite. “Now that the hard part is over, it’s time to start brainstorming. I refuse to grant my permission for Théo’s hand unless you’ve got one hell of a proposal.”

This time, I choose a pillow over a wad of tissues to hurl at Thomas’s head. “You really are the most annoying person in my life,” I say as he yelps through a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese.

“Yeah,” he replies, popping the top on his second can of beer. “I love you too, Princess.”

\--

Thomas helps me put everything together on two day’s notice. As he’d rightfully pointed out after one too many (or probably four too many) drinks, the longer I wait, the more reasons I’ll find to keep pushing it off. Plus, now that I’ve talked about it, proposing is all I can think about. I _want_ Théo to be my husband, and I don’t want to wait.

When Théo and Julien get in from the airport, Thomas goes to pick them up. I almost change my mind at least five times, because even four days apart seems like an eternity, but I force myself to follow through with the plan. As Thomas tells Théo I’m caught up at work I put the final pieces into motion.

Just after six o’clock – which is the earliest I could get The Last Bookstore, one of Théo’s favourite places in Los Angeles to close, even with significant bribing – I send him a text, asking him to meet me there. The front staff, who we’ve gotten to know fairly well over the past few years of constant visits, have agreed to play dumb about the entire thing, and I walk around upstairs, putting the finishing touches on the displays.

This entire plan has the potential to backfire – or at least it would, if I didn’t know Théo so well. I’ve been here with him so many times that I know exactly what he’ll do as soon as he walks through the doors. I know where he’ll linger and where he’ll inevitably pick out a book. I know which staff he’s more likely to chat with and which bins he’ll rifle through in order to try to find new ideas for the class he’s hoping to teach next semester.

I know that eventually he’ll make his way upstairs, where, in the section of works that are rare and difficult to find, he’ll find a copy of the book he’s been searching for since we met. I’d actually just managed to track it down this past summer, and had intended on using it as a Christmas present. I figure – or at least I hope – that this will be a more lasting memory, so I’d pulled it out of my closet and brought it along. Before I lay it down I tuck a small notecard inside – _meet me in the tunnel_ – and then hurry off to take my place.

Théo loves the tunnel of books. Every time we come here he makes a point to walk through it, running his hands over the various spines. We’ve kissed under this arching cover of books countless times, and even the smell of the paper is enough to fill me with a rush of affection.

Waiting is painful. I can feel every second in the tightening behind my eyes. The pressure mounts along with each amplified beat of my frenzied heart. I feel a kinship with the fallen heroes that Théo dutifully covers in his introductory classes: simultaneously paralyzed and tortured by the unknown.

When I finally get a text from Théo – _Just inside – where are you?_ – the tension leeches from my body. Instead of the cold, shaking panic I expect to feel, there’s nothing but a warm, giddy anticipation. That, more than anything else, convinces me that this is _right_. I wait, turning the ring box over in my hands as I look through the arch.

Shelby, one of the frontline staff who adores Théo, used the latter part of her afternoon to string fairy lights through the cracks in the archway, snorting when I asked her if it was too much trouble. I’m just shifting one of the lights to the side when I hear the familiar sound of Théo’s soft, shuffling footsteps. I look up, momentarily stunned, and find Théo at the end of the archway, looking at me in open confusion.

“Jay?” he says, curling the greeting up into a question. And I know that it’s probably stupid – especially after three years – to feel so fucking _affected_ by something so simple, but I don’t know that I’ll ever get over how much I like the sound of my name on Théo’s lips.

I slip the ring box back into my pocket for a second and walk through the tunnel toward him. We meet near the edge, and I hold out a hand, pulling him close as soon as his fingers settle against mine.

“I missed you,” I whisper, bending down to kiss him softly.

I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline or the anticipation, but this feels like a first kiss all over again. Heat sparks along the bare skin of my neck as Théo loops his arms around and pools in my abdomen as his mouth opens into mine. His tongue against my lips burns in the best possible way, and I can barely breathe for the heady rush his presence inspires.

He pulls back for a second, smiling as he moves his fingers up to twist them into my hair. “I missed you too.” He moves in to kiss me again, but instead of meeting his lips, I reach up and grab his hands. As I lower them, I bring the pair up to my lips, kissing along the soft skin of his knuckles.

He moves, as if to speak, but I lean in and steal another quick kiss.

“I wanted you to meet me here tonight for a reason,” I say, pulling him over so that we’re nearly resting against the books. “Being here always reminds me of when we first met – when I would spend hours looking at you with your nose stuck in a book, wishing that you paid half as much attention to me as you did those pages.”

Théo flushes, and it’s another miracle, that dusting of pink along the bridge of his nose.

“I know I’m not always an easy person to love,” I continue, ignoring Théo’s pointed look. “But I’m so happy that you choose to do it anyway.”

My heart is kicking into overdrive now, and I rub my palm along the edge of my jeans before slipping it into my pocket.

Théo’s eyes widen slightly as I pull the box out of my pocket, but he doesn’t move. He’s rooted to the spot, dazed and beautiful and somehow – somehow – looking fucking _surprised_ , like me wanting to marry him isn’t the most obvious desire. Like it isn’t the simplest truth.

“You and Julien have made me so happy,” I say, fighting against the sudden tightness of my throat. “Being with the two of you has given me something I never thought I could have.”

I don’t get down on one knee; I want to be up here, standing next to Théo as I ask the most important question of my life. I want to be able to look at him – to really _see_ him, as he’s been seeing me for so long.

“Théo –” I trip over his name as I fumble open the ring box, and the tiny snap of the spring is loud enough to fill the entire tunnel. Théo’s eyes are bright and shiny and I can hear my heart thudding in my ears. There are a thousand things I’d like to say – that I feel compelled to say. There are apologies and explanations, frantic declarations and heartfelt confessions. But when I look into his eyes, all of that falls away. For once in my life, I’m left with sweet simplicity.

“I love you,” I reiterate. “Will you marry me?”

Théo rockets forward, but not before I see the pooling of tears against his dark lashes. He wraps his arms around my neck and nods his head, unable to speak. Caught between laughing and crying, I pull him back and kiss him, long and sweet.

When we break apart I pull his left hand up, letting it rest near my heart. I manage to get the ring out of its box without any complications, and it slides on Théo’s finger perfectly, despite the saleslady’s assertion that _that never happens_. Once it’s in place, I bring his finger up to my mouth and kiss over the small scar that had spurred me into action.

Instead of letting his hand fall, Théo brings it – and the other – up to cup each side of my face. He leans in, letting his forehead rest against mine for the space of a breath, and then another. We stay like that for a moment, until he folds inward, pressing his body into mine once again.

“Yes,” he whispers into my neck, barely loud enough to hear. “You will forever be a _yes_ for me.” His lips rest against my neck and I take a moment to just enjoy the sensation. To absorb everything that’s happened.

Théo is going to be my _husband_.

I hadn’t lied when I’d said that I was hard to love – I am, and Théo is too. Both strange, complicated combinations of rough edges and open vulnerability. Both loathe to bend, but willing, at least, to try. And though it’s taken me a long time – too long, probably – to figure this out, I’ve realized over these past few years that I don’t _need_ Théo. Ironically, it’s one of the most valuable lessons that loving him has taught me. I don’t need him, but I _want_ him - more than I've ever wanted anything. He makes me happy – so fucking happy – and that happiness is worth becoming a little malleable.

It’s worth throwing some trust up into the universe, and accepting that sometimes, for some unknown reason, things do _just work out_.

Our fingers thread together easily, and the cool shock of Théo’s ring against my finger is a welcome sensation. We pause, briefly, for one last kiss at the edge of the tunnel, and then walk out together, toward home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to anyone who has ever been to The Last Bookstore. I have always wanted to go, but obviously never have. I hope I haven't mucked it up too badly - but let's just call it artistic license. 
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who loved this story. It's always been a stretch to call it a fanfiction, which makes it harder to cast out into the world. You've all been so kind about it and that has made me so happy. Hope you enjoyed the end :)


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